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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
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DOUBT 


AND  OTHER  THINGS 


THE  SOUL  BETWEEN  FAITH  AND  DOUBT 


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OT'j-ctR,  Ti-<  i j\f£; 


VERSE  AN©  iUUUSTRATlONS 

BY 


CATRi  -Roma 


805TOAI 

THE  FOUR  jePk}  <ZOi{^eAHY 

^ 


Copyright,  ig22,  by 

Porter  Sargent 


THE  FOUR  SEAS  PRESS 
BOSTON,  MASS.,  U.S.A. 


THIS  BOOK 

I DEDICATE  TO  MY  DAUGHTER 

ANITA  HERRIMAN  VEDDER 

WHO  HAS  SAVED  IT  FROM  DESTRUCTION 
AND  TO  THOSE  WHO  MAY  BE  GLAD 


SHE  HAS  DONE  SO 

Elihu  Vedder 


Foreword 


ELIHU  VEDDER,  at  the  age  of  eighty-six,  now,  after  ten 
years  of  continuous  thought  and  revision,  consents  to  have 
these  verses  printed.  Eight  years  ago,  some  of  his  friends 
will  remember,  their  publication  was  first  zmnounced.  At  that 
time,  he  wrote,  “Of  course  all  things  are  crude  and  must  ripen 
before  fit  for  the  public  stomach.  Yet  I will  send  them  along.” 
Since  then  they  have  not  been  hermetically  sealed,  but  have  been 
ageing  in  the  wood. 

“The  ‘Doubt’,”  he  writes  “is  doubtful — a fragmentary  thing 
at  best.”  And  again,  “I  am  sorry  there  is  so  little  hope  in  ‘Doubt’. 
It  is  as  if  written  by  a poet  on  Mars  in  prospect  of  its  inevitable 
end.  According  to  the  astronomers,  we  have  little  reason  for 
crowing.  Perhaps  other  worlds  are  being  fitted  up  for  us.” 
“Doubt  and  Other  Things,”  his  friends  will  agree,  however,  is 
the  ripest  product  of  the  genius  of  this  gorgeous  reincarnation 
of  Leonardo. 

Vedder,  in  his  genius,  is  of  all  time,  perennial  and  without  age. 
His  robust  vigor,  time-defying,  impresses  alike  his  friends  and 
his  portrait  painters. 

Of  the  latter,  he  says,  “I  send  Paxton’s  portrait, — good  as  a 
Franz  Hals.  If  you  use  it,  have  Paxton’s  name  come  out  clearly. 
He  was  too  modest  by  half  in  signing.”  Of  another  portrait  he 
writes,  “It’s  good,  but  as  it  gives  not  only  the  front  face  but  the 
two  sides,  it  is  too  broad — a sort  of  Mercator’s  projection,  as  it 
were — too  many  cocktails  in  evidence.” 

His  active  mind  spirals  about  one’s  own,  but  always  comes 
back  and  squarely  hits  the  mark.  He  signs  his  name  with  a 
vigorous  hand,  and  then  looks  up,  eyes  apop,  and  exclaims, 
“Behold  the  trembling  hand  of  age!” 

But  this  vigorous  old  oak  that  his  friends  have  so  long  known 
now  begins  to  show  signs  of  physical  decay.  We  can  only  pray 

[9] 


that  he  may  yet  have  time,  as  he  has  the  will,  to  complete  some 
of  the  many  projects  that  still  remain  in  hand.  For  his  spirit 
rebels  at  the  weakness  of  the  flesh. 

Still  “fondly  round  his  heart  are  curled  the  clinging  tendrils 
of  this  dear  old  world,”  and  defiant  of  the  processes  of  time,  he 
writes,  “A  man  once  told  me  he  began  near  St.  Peter’s,  then 
moved  to  the  Repetta,  then  to  the  Tritone — always  getting  nearer 
the  cemetery  of  San  Lorenzo.  I,  on  the  contrary,  began  my 
Roman  life  in  this  very  house,  circled  about  Rome,  and  now  find 
myself  just  where  I started  so  many  years  ago.” 

Since  Vedder  first  saw  Rome  in  1857,  his  visits  to  these  United 
States  have  been  few  and  infrequent.  For  more  than  three  score 
years  he  has  dwelt  apart,  in  Rome  and  Capri.  Living  in  retire- 
ment, shunning  publicity,  Vedder  has  been  really  known  only 
to  those  friends  who,  by  persistence  or  propinquity,  have  pene- 
trated the  first  bulwarks  of  reserve  with  which  he  has  isolated 
himself.  Once  the  first  barrier  was  broken,  he  has  given  of  him- 
self and  of  his  personality  without  stint. 

Detached  from  the  trivialities  of  modern  life,  he  is,  from  his 
aerie,  keenly  observant  of  them.  Unaffected  by  the  petty  eddies 
that  swirl  contemporary  literary  and  artistic  life,  he  boldly  breasts 
the  strong  main  currents.  He  has  consorted  with  Michael  Angelo, 
Leonardo,  Durer,  and  the  great  of  earth,  and  interprets  life  as 
would  they  today. 

But  his  vision  of  the  world  is  his  own,  and  those  who  know 
him  and  his  work  catch  wonderful  glimpses,  not  only  through  his 
painting  and  his  less  known  sculpture,  but  of  late  through  his 
verse. 

Whatever  he  does,  in  paint,  or  clay,  or  words,  is  always  ex- 
pressive of  vision.  To  one  who  remarked  that  “an  artist  should 
be  just  an  artist  up  to  his  eyes,”  Vedder  retorted,  “Yes,  but  look 
at  Durer  and  Da  Vinci.  Didn’t  they  cram  ideas  into  their  work? 
Have  any  of  the  big  fellows  ever  been  ‘just  artists  up  to  their 
eyes’?  By  Jove,  you  can  make  up  your  mind  that  any  chap  who 
boasts  of  being  ‘an  artist  up  to  his  eyes’  is  a fool  the  rest  of  the 
way !” 

Porter  Sargent 


October  i,  1922 


[10] 


Contents 


DOUBT 

Doubt  ...... 

The  Bigot  ...... 

Saints  ...... 

Bugaboos  ...... 

Madness  ...... 

VERSES  ALLIED  TO  DOUBT 

Proem  ...... 

Why 

In  Extremis  ..... 

Truth  ....... 

The  Old  Question  .... 

The  Ever-Open  Door  .... 

Logic  ....... 

Death  ...... 

The  Endless  Fight  .... 

Doubt  ....... 

The  Devious  Track  .... 

The  Early  Bird  ..... 

Anno  Domini  1914  .... 

Moralizing  ..... 

The  Eclipse  ...... 

A Text  ...... 

The  Missionary  ..... 

The  Dogmatist  . . . 

Truth  ...... 

Reconcilers  ...... 

Inconclusive  ..... 

Responsibility  ..... 

The  Sunday  Dram  .... 

The  Unforeseen  ..... 

A (Question  ..... 

The  Antidote  ..... 


21 

26 

29 

35 

37 

53 

54 

55 

56 

57 

58 

60 

61 

62 

63 

64 

65 

67 

69 

70 

72 

74 

75 

76 

77 

78 

79 

80 

81 

82 

83 


[llj 


The  Enemy  Sowing  Tares  ....  84 

The  Predicament  86 

Gold 88 

Fear 89 

Atomic  Responsibility  .....  90 

Faith  91 

Eyesight  .......  92 

“Useless  Are  Denunciations”  ...  92 

Man’s  Need  93 

“Gazing  as  We  Now  Do  on  the  Skies”  . . 94 

Hope 96 

THE  OTHER  THINGS 

Foreword  .......  99 

Evidently  Under  Influence  ....  100 

Some  Jokes 101 

Optics 102 

Adam  ........  104 

Equality 105 

The  Temple  Door  106 

Absurd  .......  107 

A Song  .......  108 

Marsyas  109 

Poetry  .......  110 

Rhyme  .......  Ill 

Nineteen  Fifteen  .....  112 

The  Symbol  ......  113 

“Leave  the  Cypress  and  the  Yew,  Trees  So  True”  114 
“Let  Fair  Tombs  Stand  the  Busy  Highway  Near”  115 
The  Letter  I ......  116 

The  Sonnet  .......  117 

A Sigh  118 

The  Weeping  Willow  .....  119 

To  a Youth  ......  120 

A Dinner  Declined 121 

Verdun  122 

Up  to  Date  .......  123 


[12] 


Packed  Down  ......  124 

Quotations  .......  125 

The  Hermit  ......  126 

Luna 127 

M.D.’s  AND  D.D.’s  128 

To  WiuLiAM  Graham  .....  129 

Parody  .......  130 

The  Victors  ......  131 

Revery  .......  132 

The  Land  of  Song  .....  133 

Why  Explain? 134 

A Fearful  Thought  .....  135 

Alfaru  .......  136 

Spelling  .......  137 

To  AN  Old  Man  ......  138 

Bitter-Sweet  ......  139 

Hermits  .......  140 

Classification  ......  142 

Technique  .......  143 

The  Three  Knights  .....  144 

A Refrain  .......  145 

A Birthday  Gift  ......  146 

Aged  Seventy-four  .....  146 

A Precept  .......  147 

Heredity  .......  148 

The  Prodigal  ......  149 

Fame  ........  150 

Superstition  ......  151 

In  Old  Books  ......  152 

The  Bookworm 153 

Books 154 

Dreams  156 

The  Beard  .......  157 

The  Eagle 158 

His  Vocation  159 

Smithereens  ......  160 

Two  Fair  Philosophies  ....  161 

The  Bended  Bow 162 


[13] 


Words  ........  163 

The  Absent  Cure  ......  164 

Intensity  .......  165 

Songs  of  Indigestion  .....  166 

The  Nude  .......  167 

Two  Pictures  of  Snow  ....  168 

Mother  Shipton  ......  169 

Folly  Enthroned  . . . . . . 170 

A Protest  .......  172 

Beer  and  Belly  ......  173 

John  Beats  Thomas  .....  174 

(Quaint  Questions  .....  175 

The  Praying  Mantis  . . . . . 176 

Naughty  Spirits 177 

The  Lovesick  Faun  .....  178 

The  Dreaming  Mountain  ....  180 

Pride  ........  180 

Mirth’s  Music  . . . . . . 182 

To  Holland  183 

In  Capri  .......  184 

Good  Advice  ......  185 

Optimist  and  Pessimist  .....  186 

Venus  ........  187 

Smaller  by  Degrees  and  Beautifully  Less  . 188 

Bubbles  and  Baubles  .....  189 

The  Outline  ......  190 

Miracles  .......  191 

The  Advent  of  Man  .....  192 

The  Pessimistic  Maze  .....  194 

The  Slot  .......  195 

The  Boomerang  ......  196 

Culture  .......  197 

Too  True  .......  198 

Hell  ........  199 

The  How  and  Why  .....  200 

Philosophers  ......  201 

Don^t  Call  Me  Mister;  Call  Me  George  . 202 

Illusions  .......  203 


[14] 


A Chinese  Picture 
Compensations 
Humbug 

Camera  Lucida  and  Camera  Obscura 
Autumn 

A Cure  for  Insomnia 
The  Classic 
Fourth  of  July,  1914 
Fame 

Rhyme  and  Reason 
An  Excuse 
Those  Days 
Could  I But  Know! 

An  Old  Man’s  Song 
A Questioning  Sage 
“The  Seven  Sages  All  Agreed” 

Aunt  Eveline 
Father  Whjjam 


A New  Year’s  Greeting 
In  Far-Off  Zanadu 
Herford’s  Fly 
Microbes 
A Timely  Saint 


The  Mermaid  Inn 
The  Breath  of  Spring 
Enchantment 
Three  Old  Men 
Vanity 

“Highfalutin” 

Pen  Play,  or  Piffle 


GLEAMS 


Foreword  to  Gleams 
The  Archeologists 
Why  Compare? 

D.  G.  Rossetti 

Whitman 

Emerson 


204 

206 

207 

208 

209 

210 
211 
212 

213 

214 

215 

216 
216 
218 
220 
221 
222 

223 

224 

225 

226 

227 

228 

229 

230 
230 
232 

234 

235 

236 


243 

244 

246 

247 

248 

249 


[15] 


Aristotle 250 

Burns  251 

Pluto  and  Plutarch 252 

Ericson  254 

Ruskin  255 

Hudibras 256 

Lacon  and  Festus  ......  257 

Coleridge  .......  258 

Poe 260 

The  Bacon  Theory 261 

Pepys 262 

Dante  263 

Spencer’s  Supine  Comedy  ....  264 

Diogenes 265 

Omar’s  Garden  ......  266 

Tupper  .......  267 

Crichton 268 

Horace  Walpole  .....  269 

ClIATTERTON  . . . . . . 270 

Browning 271 

Carlyle  .......  272 

Goethe,  or  Psychic  Conchology  . . . 273 

William  Blake  ......  274 

Boswell  and  Johnson  .....  275 

Defob  ........  276 

Gustave  Dor6 277 

Tolstoy  .......  278 

Cervantes  .......  279 

CORNARO  280 

Beethoven 281 

Moore  ........  282 

Hbrford  .......  283 

Austin  Dobson  ......  284 

Botticelli 285 

Carlo  Dolce  286 

Bangs  ........  287 

A Comment 288 

Books  and  Looks  289 

[16] 


Illustrations 


The  Soul  Between  Faith  and  Doubt  Frontispiece 
^‘Can  We  Living  Ever  Solve?  Ai'Ter — Is  It  Then 

Too  Late?”  ......  22 

The  Birth  of  the  Idea  ....  33 

The  Kesurrection  Day  ....  47 

A Mystery  in  Lines  and  Spaces  ...  52 

The  Ever-Open  Door  .....  59 

The  Eclipse  of  the  Sun  by  the  Moon  . . 71 

The  Enemy  Sowing  Tares  ....  85 

The  Deep-Thinking — the  Endurer  . . 95 

“Leave  the  Cypress  and  the  Yew”  . . 114 

“Let  Fair  Tombs  Stand  the  Busy  Highway  Near”  115 
Luna  ........  127 

“Who  Fled  the  World  Their  Souls  to  Save”  . 141 

Books  ........  155 

Folly  Enthroned  .....  171 

The  Dreaming  Mountain  ....  181 

The  Advent  of  Man  .....  193 

A Chinese  Picture  .....  205 

Those  Days  ......  217 

Enchantment  ......  231 

Post-Futurist  Arch.®ology,  A.D.  3000  . . 245 

In  Pluto’s  Bealm  .....  253 


[17] 


DOUBT 

AND  OTHER  THINGS 


NOTA  BENE' 


/T  is  not  for  me  to  pass  judgment  on  Doubt  or 
Doubters,  that  concerns  Philosophers  and 
Theologians;  but  as  a painter  I can  at  least  give 
its  portrait  with  some  hope  of  success,  after  am, 
intimacy  of  mamy  years  standing.  Doubtless 
Erasmus  Roterdamus  could  hare  done  better,  as 
shown  in  his  ^‘Praise  of  Folly’’  where  he  attends 
to  Fools.  But  Doubters  are  not  Fools;  among 
them  may  be  found  mamy  eminent  persons,  even 
a Saint — who  by  rights  should  be  their  patron — 
St.  Thomas. 

As  to  the  utility  of  this  portrait  of  Doubt  1 
must  quote  the  magazines:  ‘‘It  icill  serve  to 
identify  me.” 


Those  who  can  read  the  hearts  of  men 
May  know  what  motive  moves  this  pen, 
But  he  who  holds  the  pen  scarce  knows 
From  what  dim  source  that  motive  flows. 
He  sees  in  Nature’s  endless  strife 
By  gleams,  the  mystic  wheel  of  Life ; 

Again  a ray  as  from  above 
Shows  him  the  flaming  heart  of  Love, 
Then  in  the  evergrowing  gloom 
A single  star  above  a tomb. 

A Gleam,  a Ray,  a Star,  a Tomb, 

A Guess,  a Faith,  a Hope,  a Doom. 


CAN  WE  LIVING  EVER  SOLVE?  AFTER — IS  IT  THEN  TOO  LATE? 


Man  makes  himself  a Labyrinth, 

Which  he  then  calls  the  life  of  man, 

And  in  its  mixed,  meandering  ways 
He  doubting  and  believing  strays 
Most  of  his  days. 

When  he  is  right  he  fears  he’s  wrong. 

And  when  he’s  wrong — he  thinks  he’s  right ; 
He  lights  a candle — calls  it  day, 

He  blows  it  out  and  calls  it  night. 

And  thinks  he’s  right. 

Once  Zion’s  altars  streamed  with  blood 
Of  victims  slain  his  soul  to  save. 

He  doubted — now  the  olive  grows 
Where  he  was  once  but  Faith’s  blind  slave 
Or  blind  Faith’s  slave. 

That  is,  the  olive  ought  to  grow 
Where  Turk  to  Christian  still  can  show 
The  very  birth-place  and  the  grave 
Of  him  who  came  mankind  to  save. 

Lost  Man  to  save. 


[23] 


Now  in  a Babel  of  wild  creeds 
The  theologic  maggot  breeds 
Where  Man  no  more  the  offering  slays 
But  curses  his  brother  as  he  prays, 

And  even  slays. 

By  doubting  that  the  world  was  flat 
He  proved,  it  seems,  the  world  is  round. 

By  doubting  that  the  world  stood  still 
He  proved  that  theory  imsound — 

It  does  go  round. 

And  now  perceiving  all  things  move 
He  longs  to  know  who  gave  the  shove, 
Came  it  in  hatred  or  in  love? 

Had  he  a hand  in  this  great  shove? 

Who  gave  the  shove? 

He  sees  all  things  forever  move. 
Conditions  change,  with  changing  days. 
He  hopes  all  things  will  end  in  Love, 

Yet  wonders  at  Love’s  cruel  ways — 

A Love  that  slays. 

Time  was  when  men  the  Doubter  killed. 

In  this  they  proved  themselves  unwise, 
Their  aim  should  be  to  kill  the  Doubt, 

This  they  can  do  when  they  find  out 

That  Truth  kills  Doubt. 


[24] 


Abused  Doubt — that  Finder-out, 

That  Stripper-off  of  all  disguise, 

That  Purger  of  Man’s  muddy  eyes. 

The  thing  that  Bigots  most  despise. 
How  hard  it  dies. 

But  wait  a bit — Doubt  does  not  die ; 

It  is  essential  as  the  eye. 

For  ’tis  the  prism  of  the  mind 
Making  a spectrum  where  we  find 
The  lines  of  Truth  better  defined. 

To  which  we’re  blind. 

One  while,  a taper’s  feeble  ray 
Lit  the  dark  catacombs  of  Care, 

Now,  candles  numberless  display 
A blinding  light  resembling  day — 

In  which  we  pray; 

To  some  all  temples  cast  a gloom: 

They  seem  a candle-lighted  Tomb 
Where  Truth  lies  dead;  they  need  a ray 
Of  purer  light,  to  light  the  way — 

Out  into  day. 


[25] 


Priests  sometimes  prate  of  Liberty. 
Beware — ’tis  for  themselves,  not  Thee. 
Look  at  the  lands  where  they  most  rule 
Then  meekly  yield  to  them  the  school, 
And  you  will  very  quickly  see 
What  use  they  make  of  Liberty. 

They’ll  give  the  youthful  mind  a twist 
That  in  the  adult  will  persist, 

Making  of  man  a pliant  tool 
To  aid  their  plan — which  is  to  rule. 
They’re  simply  wild  to  rule  the  roast 
And  when  they  can — again  will  toast. 
See  History. 

The  Mind’s  a stuff  that  doth  retain 
A form,  an  impress,  or  a stain 
That  nothing  can  obliterate; 

A hall-mark  on  Youth’s  golden  state 
That  must  remain. 
[26] 


When  Theologians  fall  out 
And  touzle  sheaves  of  Truth  about, 
They  sometimes  grains  of  Wisdom  find 
But  ever  leave  one  grain  behind — 

That  grain  is  Doubt. 

To  offset  which  they  possess  Hope, 

Or  they  think  so,  with  which  to  cope 
With  Nature’s  great  brutality, 

A Hope  which  is  a varying  faith 
In  Immortality. 

Pure  Justice  such  as  men  conceive. 

Or  God  permits  them  to  believe. 

In  Nature  they  nowhere  perceive; 

This,  Nature  seems  to  be  without. 

And  so  they  doubt. 

But  ’tis  considered  a great  sin 
To  doubt  the  faith  you’re  brought  up  in; 
Yet  all  reformers  must  begin 
By  committing  this  great  sin — 

If  ’tis  a sin? 

Savonarola  saw  expire 
And  in  humiliation  dire 
Beheld  his  faith  melt  quite  away 
Before  another  Bigot’s  fire 

On  one  dread  day. 

Yet  many  thousands  Death  have  sought 
Beneath  the  car  of  Juggernaut. 

And  so  we  see  a varying  Faith 
Which  makes  us  pause  to  estimate 

The  worth  of  Faith. 
[27] 


That  Faith’s  the  strongest  thing  on  earth 
It  would  be  foolishness  to  doubt. 

The  only  thing  is  to  find  out 
Which  Faith  no  other  Faith  can  doubt — 
Just  find  that  out. 

And  what  are  we  to  say  of  Hope? 
Cannot  that  Mighty  Spirit  cope 
With  Doubt  and  Fear  and  deep  Despair? 
And  clear  this  labyrinthine  air 

Of  dark  Despair. 


The  world  outside  Man’s  little  maze 
As  wide  as  all  creation  is, 

Yet  he  pursues  his  narrow  ways 
And  separates  God’s  ways  from  his — 
God’s  plan  from  his. 

God’s  plan  and  his  may  be  the  same, 
They  may  be  doing  all  they  can, 

Man  helping  God — God  helping  Man, 
This  seems  to  be  the  latest  plcin. 

The  final  plan. 

So  after  this  naught  need  be  said. 
Beyond  this  we  no  further  go. 

It  may  be,  or  may  not  be  so. 

As  yet  we  do  not  surely  know — 

Some  say  they  know! 


[28] 


I have  a bone  to  pick  with  Saints, 

Be  they  the  fat  or  skinny  kind, 

Who  first  their  way  to  Heaven  find 
And  leave  the  most  of  us  behind — 

’Tis  most  unkind. 

They  take  the  reason  by  surprise 
With  half-seen  truths  backed  up  by  lies. 
So  mingled  and  so  well  entrenched 
Are  all  these  venerable  lies 

That  Doubt  now  tries. 

Take  then  that  scientific  side 
Where  by  degrees  you  gently  glide 
From  facts  to  unproved  theories. 

Where  one  wanders  more  at  ease 
The  less  one  sees. 

[29] 


That  things  are  as  they  are,  we  see; 

The  reason  why  is  not  so  clear, 

Nor  is  it  comforting  to  know 
That  they  are  so  because  they  are  so — 
That  does  not  cheer. 

What  is  the  use  of  seeming  odd? 
Claiming  your  mind  cannot  grasp  God? 
When  any  preacher  in  the  land 
Will  glibly  make  you  understand 
All  about  God. 

I often  think  ’tis  strange  to  see 
How  every  man  unwittingly. 

No  matter  how  opposed  his  plan, 

Must  do  some  good  to  every  man; 

’Tis  a good  plan. 

So  should  the  spirit  of  Tom  Payne 
Or  Voltaire,  visit  earth  again. 

That  visit  some  would  call  a good. 

Or  might,  or  could,  or  would,  or  should — 
I know  I should. 

The  same  abuses  are  as  rife 
As  when  they  lived  this  earthly  life. 

The  need  of  caustic  wit  and  pen 
Is  felt  as  keenly  now  as  then — 

Both  wit  and  pen. 


[30] 


Of  course  I often  mention  Plan 
Because  it  rhymes  so  well  with  Meui, 
I make  them  rhyme,  but  not  agree, 
And  it’s  just  that  that  bothers  me — 


The  fact  is  no  one  knows  the  Truth; 
Goodness  is  lovely.  Sin  uncouth — 
Yet  see  them  sitting  cheek  by  jowl, 
Sanctity  and  Sin  most  foul. 


Contrasts  are  needed,  the  Wise  say. 
Night,  to  bring  out  the  light  of  Day; 
Even  poor  starving  Poverty 
Gives  birth  to  generous  Charity, 

So  the  Wise  say. 

All  have  a life — some  more,  some  less; 
Some  live  to  curse,  some  live  to  bless, 
Some  lives  are  full  of  happiness 
While  some  are  but  a sorry  mess 


They  won’t  agree. 


Yes,  cheek  by  jowl. 


Of  wretchedness. 


[31] 


Yet  earth  is  fair  with  what  has  been, 
With  what  now  is,  with  what’s  to  come. 
With  beauty  every  day  renewed. 

With  pleasure  yet  to  be  pursued. 

With  hopes  new  won. 

Yes,  beautiful  beneath  the  sky. 

Its  verdant  plains,  its  mountains  high. 
Ah!  Yes,  its  beauty  none  deny. 

But  there’s  the  shadow — all  must  die. 
Yes,  all  must  die. 


But  set  aside  sad  thoughts  of  Death, 
See  the  myriad  stars  at  night. 

Is  there  not  Hope,  is  there  not  Might 
In  all  that  most  stupendous  sight? 

And  great  delight? 


[32] 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  IDEA 


There  carping  Doubt  fades  quite  away, 
Man  feels  that  all  things  must  be  right, 
That  there  at  least  his  soul  is  free 
To  wander  through  Infinity 

By  its  own  might. 

Wandering  through  Infinity, 

What  doth  Man’s  ardent  spirit  find? 
Naught  but  the  limits  of  his  mind — 

The  confines  of  his  little  mind 

Doth  he  there  find. 

Yet  beareth  he  a genn  divine: 

‘This  universe  may  yet  be  mine.’ 

Poor  fool,  he  dreameth  drunk  with  wine. 
Yet  his  bold  dream  hath  something  fine — 
Almost  divine. 

Such  ‘wine’  old  Omar  dreamed  about 
As  he  went  reeling  in  and  out 
Through  taverns  theological, 

All  ending  in  a Persian  bout — 

More  logical. 

Old  Omar  lived  so  long  ago 

He  could  not  know  what  we  now  know. 

Nor  solve  as  we  the  scheme  divine, 

And  so  he  solved  his  doubts  in  wine — 

In  real  red  wine. 


[34] 


Bugaboos 

Men  filled  the  world  with  Bugaboos 
Until  at  last  they  now  refuse 
To  fear  or  trust  in  Bugaboos. 

Now  millions  of  Atoms  fill  all  space 
Till  waves  of  aether  these  replace. 
Which  some  consider  merely  thought. 
So  matter  is  reduced  to  naught; 

No  matter,  they’ll  begin  again 
Reducing  thought  to  ease  or  pain 
Or  piously  to  Good  and  Evil, 

Thus  saving  that  Bugaboo 
THE  DEVIL. 


[35] 


All  that  we  know  of  Deviltry 
Was  equally  well  known  of  yore; 

So  we  but  tread  an  ancient  shore 
Where  all  the  pebbles  we  behold 

Have  been  gone  o’er. 

Things  we  thought  dead  or  stowed  away — 
The  curtained  corner,  turned  down  light, 
Now  boldly  flout  the  face  of  day. 
Resuming  in  fair  Science’  name 

Their  ancient  sway. 

Science  enamored  is  of  Light, 

For  wandering  in  the  darkest  night 

Tracing  the  ultra-violet  ray 

She  only  hopes  to  prove  some  day. 

There  is  no  night; 

But,  says  the  ruthless  modern  mind, 
‘What  makes  all  things  so  devilish? 

Tell  us  the  Truth;  no  more,  no  less; 
We’re  always  put  off  with  a guess. 

Always  a guess.’ 

The  more  we  ponder  on  the  question. 

The  more  we  need  a good  digestion; 

Some  swallow  all  and  let  it  stay. 

That  was  the  good  old-fashioned  way. 

That  pious  way ! 

‘Let  good  digestion  wait  on  all’ 

Remains,  we  fear,  a pious  wish 
In  view  of  this  enormous  dish. 

What  makes  all  things  so  devilish? 

Yes,  devilish. 

[36] 


Madness 

Saints  taking  things  so  seriously 
Bring  on  the  very  Hell  they  dread, 

For  every  mad-house  shows  some  one 
Who  saved  his  soul,  but  lost  his  head. 

Nor  is  it  safe  to  stop  half  way 
For  Dante  shows  as  clear  as  day 
That  ’tis  the  hesitating  Souls 
That  in  the  end,  the  dearest  pay. 


(March  2,  1915.) 


[37] 


We  fear  good  folks  must  shut  their  eyes, 

Or  never  read  or  realize, 

How  much  the  Saints  all  have  to  tell 
And  how  on  it  they  love  to  dwell — 

We  speak  of  Hell. 

In  these  days  it’s  kept  out  of  sight, 

For  fear  it  might  annoy  or  fright, 

’Tis  so  depressing  in  the  night. 

In  fact  it’s  out  of  fashion  quite — 

But  is  this  right? 

It  was  prepared  with  so  much  care 
In  hopes  of  sending  thousands  there. 

Truly,  ’twould  make  old  Dante  stare 
To  find  his  Hell  now  almost  bare — 

So  few  go  there. 

But  do  not  let  us  overween. 

What  has  been  may  again  be  seen ; 

Names  change,  but  things  remain  the  same; 
So  we  may  see  his  Hell  again — 

With  all  its  pain. 

Saints  many  different  stories  tell. 

But  all  agree  upon  a Hell, 

There  all  their  varied  stories  blend. 

Their  sinners  all  to  Hell  they  send — 
Admire  the  ‘Blend.’ 


[38] 


A Plan 


Someone  devised  a simple  plan 
Imagining  a God-like  man, 

Who  without  church  or  without  creed, 
Helps  each  according  to  his  need. 

Not  in  Man’s  plentitude  of  power. 

In  health,  in  wealth,  in  happiness. 

But  in  his  dark  despairing  hour 
Of  weakness  and  distress. 


This  the  predicament  we’re  in — 
Without  Sin  there  is  no  strife, 
And  without  strife  there  is  no  life. 


From  this  conclusion  to  escape  we  try  in  vain. 
Nature  a singularly  even  balance  doth  maintain. 
For  the  same  nerves  that  give  us  pleasure 

Give  us  pain. 


[39] 


Mid  all  these  schemes,  some  scheme  must  save, 
So  many  are  the  various  ways. 

Some  even  think  that  problem  plays 
Some  sorts  of  sinners  yet  may  save — 

’Tis  a close  shave. 

Doubtless  I’ll  soon  enough  be  told 
My  tales  of  Saints  and  Hell  are  old. 

That  things  have  undergone  a change — 

Much  for  the  better — ^yet  ’tis  strange. 

Yes,  very  strange. 

That  I should  find  them  all  alive. 

That  Saints  on  differences  thrive. 

Questions  not  settled,  not  a bit. 

And  all  the  Saints  for  fight  most  fit — 

For  fight  yet  fit. 

Just  let  a Saint  tread  on  the  hem 
Of  some  Saint  in  Jerusalem, 

Then  watch  the  brotherly  embrace 
And  see  the  showers  of  Heavenly  Grace 
Descend  on  them. 


Doubt  doubts  itself  into  belief. 

If  only  to  get  some  relief 

From  all  these  strange  bedevilments 

Of  scientific  psychical  developments. 

[40] 


Good  men  are  born  the  wide  world  o’er, 
And  have  been  since  the  days  of  Noah, 

’Tis  not  their  creed  that  makes  them  good, 
’Tis  in  the  breed  or  in  the  blood, 

Not  neighborhood. 

Creeds  are  but  guesses  Saints  have  made 
At  mysteries  beyond  their  reach, 

Which  they,  before  they’ve  fairly  grasped. 
Begin  to  teach. 

They’ve  fed  men  on  fair  fallacies, 

Hope’s  rainbow  hues  and  dazzling  dyes. 
But  never  show  the  naked  Truth’s 
Crude  nudities. 

Perhaps  ’twould  like  Medusa’s  head 
Turn  them  to  stone  or  strike  them  dead. 
So  must  be  overlaid  with  lies — 

To  spare  their  eyes. 

[41] 


Those  strictly  following  the  track 
Of  others,  find  when  they  get  back 
They  have  no  progress  really  made. 

It  has  been  shadow  following  shade 
Quite  retrograde. 

Better  o’erleap  the  hedging  walls 
Unmindful  of  your  many  falls. 

See  for  yourself  what  can  be  seen. 
Allowing  none  to  stand  between. 

Or  the  Truth  screen. 


‘Truth — What  is  Truth?’ — I hear  the  reader  cry, 
Truth  changes  from  day  to  day — and  so  do  I, 
We’re  ever  on  the  wing,  could  we  but  stay 
I might  find  out  what  Truth  is  some  fine  day. 


[42] 


[43] 


Doubt  implies  not  Unbelief 
But  rather  seeks  for  that  relief 
Which  only  certainty  can  give, 

Otherwise  we’re  like  the  brutes 
Who  only  live. 

Doubt  often  sees  that  Policy 
Parades  at  times  as  Honesty, 

But  never  will  consent  to  be 
Honest — through  mere  Policy, 

That  pious  plea. 

Doubt  helps  select,  helps  to  appoint. 

Even  elect  but  not  anoint. 

Doubt  ever  lacks  creative  will: 

The  Doubter  rests  the  Doubter  still. 

And  ever  will. 

How  cunningly  the  Doubter  rails 
And  tears  to  bits  the  pious  tales 
Of  Saints  and  Prophets,  yet  he  fails 
To  give  us  better  pious  tales. 

Or  fairy  tales. 

Doubt,  like  the  Earth-disintegrating  worm, 

Is  not  the  working  of  a will  infirm. 

But  is  the  slow  preparatory  toil 

That  makes  Man’s  mind  a more  propitious  soil. 

Doubt  doubts  not  for  the  sake  of  doubt. 

It  only  seeks  the  Humbug  out. 

Unmasks  pretentious  dangerous  fools. 

Or  the  ambitious,  or  their  tools — 

As  bad  as  fools. 

[44] 


Doubt  finds  no  fault  with  efforts  made 
To  remedy  Life’s  many  wrongs, 

It  only  thinks  with  all  earth’s  woes 
There  should  be  fewer  Victor’s  songs, 
Triumphant  songs. 

The  triumph  still  is  with  the  Strong, 

Or  cunning  Greed  still  leads  the  way. 
Doubt  only  asks  of  those  who  pray 
Or  preach,  or  teach,  or  talk  so  much. 

Why  this  delay? 

Brute  Force  gives  but  one  knock-out  blow, 
And  all  your  fine-spun  theories  go. 

Think  you  by  tying  threads  again 
You  may  that  Gulliver  retain. 

Bind  or  restrain? 


Truly  we  need  another  life 
To  heal  the  Victims  of  this  strife. 

They  ask  no  crowns  for  victories  won 
But  compensation  for  wrongs  done 
Under  the  sun. 


[45] 


Where  lies  the  Truth? — You  must  find  out 
Or  blindly  cast  aside  all  Doubt; 

But  know  that  where  there’s  mystery 
Its  shadow  Doubt  you’ll  surely  see. 

A better  standpoint  than  that  show 
Of  knowing  what  you  do  not  know, 

That  shallow  show. 


The  Doubter  is  not  made  but  born, 

So  he  doubts  much  if  Gabriel’s  horn 
Will  wake  him  on  that  last  great  morn — 
Doubting  the  mom. 


[46] 


THE  RESURRECTION  DAY 


He  thinks  each  mom  may  be  his  last, 
And  that  without  the  rousing  blast 
Of  Gabriel’s  awakening  horn, 

Doubting  the  horn. 

He  ought  to  fear  that  Gabriel 
Might  mean  for  him  a call  to  Hell, 
And  would  if  he  did  not  doubt  Hell 
And  Gabriel. 


Some  think  the  Resurrection  Day 
Is  one  wild  scene  of  dire  dismay. 

N o — ’tis  as  silent  as  the  tomb. 

Enough  the  looks  all  bent  on  Thee 
To  seal  thy  Doom. 

When  in  Truth’s  mirror  Thou  shalt  look 
And  see  thine  eyes  gaze  back  at  Thee, 
Will  that  not  be  thy  Judgement  Day? 
What  need  of  other  eyes  to  see? 

What  canst  Thou  say? 


Man’s  heart  first  beats;  he  then  takes  breath; 
His  heart  beats  on  until  his  death. 

But  he’s  not  asked  if  he  thinks  meet 
That  he  should  breathe,  or  his  heart  beat — 
Nor  about  Death. 

[48] 


Not  being  consulted  in  the  least 
How  doth  he  differ  from  the  beast? 
Treading  a path  he  cannot  see 
Hov^^  can  he  say:  ‘My  soul  is  free.’ 

How  can  that  be? 

Wills  Man  to  live  from  the  beginning 
And  finds  that  living  is  but  sinning? 

Or  does  he  live  in  destined  grooves 
To  find  by  sinning  he  improves? 

What,  Sin  improve? 

Evil  is  that  which  is  opposed 
To  a great  Law,  or  settled  scheme. 

The  working  out  of  which  would  seem 
Constitutes  Life. 

To  peaceful  Souls  this  makes  life  Hell. 
Weary  of  which  they  fain  would  dwell 
Without  this  everlasting  strife. 
Unconscious  botli  of  Heaven  and  Hell — 
Almost  of  Life. 

This  is  Nirvana — at  its  best 
Profound,  almost  unconscious,  rest. 

And  yet,  and  yet,  ’tis  sad  to  doubt. 

For  when  we  see  a growing  light, 

A harbinger  of  better  days. 

Cold  Doubt  absorbing  all  its  rays. 
Turns  it  to  night. 


[49] 


Hope  says,  ‘I  seem  to  see  a light.’ 
Faith  says,  ‘That  is  the  dawn  of  day.* 
Doubt  says,  ‘I’ll  wait,  it  is  yet  night.’ 
Death  says,  ‘ ’Tis  left  for  me  to  say 
Which  one  is  right.’ 


[50] 


Thus  I diverge  on  either  hand. 

An  I — divided,  cannot  stand, 

Falling  apart  it  forms  a V — 

Which  I much  fear  resembles  me. 
By  turns  attracted  or  put  out, 

I sometimes  marvel,  sometimes  flout. 


MYSTERY  IN  LINES  AND  SPACES 


Proem 


When  past  and  present  both  conspire 
To  picture  forth  a future  dire, 

This  may  the  doubting  mind  relieve — 
Doubt  long  enough  and  you’ll  believe. 
Believe  all  Good  is  from  above, 

Believe  all  is  ordained  by  Love. 

The  voice  of  Doubt  is  never  still 
While  we  have  breath. 

Perhaps  for  this  there  was  ordained 
That  Rest — called  Death. 


[53] 


Why? 

Why  in  the  name  of  common  sense 
When  we  perforce  are  hurried  hence 
Must  we  inevitably  dwell 
Either  in  Heaven  or  in  Hell, 

Is  more  than  common  sense  can  tell ! 

On  Earth,  we  live  in  both,  ’tis  seen. 
Not  quite  in  Heaven,  but  between 
Those  others,  who  contented  dwell 
In  what  to  us  would  seem  a Hell! 

But  after — why  a scale  so  just 
That  even  one  little  speck  of  dust 
Will  send  a soul  to  Heaven  or  Hell, 
(Where  it  must  permanently  dwell) 
Is  more  than  common  sense  can  tell. 


[54] 


In  Extremis 

0£  all  the  fictions  of  the  mind 
Men  take  to  with  avidity 
Is  that  salvation  they  can  find, 
With  lightning-like  rapidity. 

Can  oak  with  centuries  of  growth 
Be  changed  to  weeping- willow? 
Can  Man  his  years  of  sin  revoke 
At  once  upon  Death’s  pillow? 


[55] 


Truth 


No  sooner  doth  Man  make  a guess 
Than  all  the  actors  change  their  dress, 
Till  Truth  remains  the  best  guess  made, 
Pro  tern,  in  Life’s  great  masquerade. 
And  even  this  may  be  a guess. 

Or  shifty  actors’  change  of  dress. 


All  things  men  see,  and  ever  saw. 
Seem  governed  by  unchanging  law. 
Then  he  is  part  of  a machine? 

If  not,  ’tis  clear  all  things  but  seem 
Governed  by  law. 


[56] 


The  Old  Question 

The  man  who  reconciles  the  two — 
Free-will,  Predestination — 

By  all  odds  will  turn  out,  we  think. 
The  smartest  in  creation. 

Yet  both  are  true  and  must  be  so; 
Ingenious  preachers  make  them  go. 

The  universe  is  very  wide. 

In  time  and  space  well  may  abide 
(No  need  that  they  be  side  by  side) 
Nirvana  and  frenzied  energy; 

And  so  these  two  be  reconciled, 

Man’s  vaunted  Will  and  Destiny. 

Yet  spite  this  guess  Doubt  fails  to  see 
How  Free-will  can  be  Destiny? 


[57] 


What  means  this  wide  and  ever  open  door? 
Through  which  mankind — the  high,  the  low, 
The  rich,  the  poor,  forever  go,  to  weal  or  woe? 
Means  it  Defeat— or  means  it  Victory? 

Means  it  Joy — or  but  more  Misery? 

We  only  know  our  bodies  are  but  dust. 

And  go  they  must,  back  to  infinity — 

But  where  the  Soul,  and  its  fond  hopes 
Of  Immortality? 


[58] 


THE  EVER-OPEN  DOOR 


Logic 

Logic  affords  this  simple  plan 
To  wind  up  the  affairs  of  Man. 

Let  God  and  Satan  cease  to  fight, 

At  once  comes  on  eternal  night, 
Where  Life  itself  yields  up  its  breath 
Lost  in  the  great  repose  of  Death. 
For  with  the  torch  of  Life  burned  out 
Ended  is  both  Faith  and  Doubt; 

And  movement  ends  and  all  is  dumb 
In  silent  equilibrium. 

And  Logic — Devil — God  and  Man — 
In  chaos  end,  where  they  began. 

Here  then  behold  a perfect  plan 
To  wind  up  the  affairs  of  Man. 


[60] 


Death 

Death  is  a theme, 
Belonging  to  the  scheme 
Of  Life; 

And  bids  fair  to  be 
An  unsolved  mystery 
To  all  Eternity. 

Some  moralists  contend 
That  Death  is  not  the  end, 
Only  a change; 

If  this  be  so,  ’tis  strange 
We  do  not  crave  the  grave. 
But  doubting  go. 

Of  one  thing  only  sure: 

We  hope — but  do  not  know. 


To  Death  we  give  the  name  of  Change, 
’Tis  simply  but  a change  of  name. 

The  awful  fact  remains  the  same, 
Which,  sugar-coat  it  as  you  will. 
Always  remains  a bitter  pill. 

We  see  in  Nature  periods  of  rest. 

And  Death  is  one  of  them, — 

Perhaps  the  best. 

[61] 


The  Endless  Fight 

Facing,  the  Gladiators  stand 
On  the  arena’s  well-swept  sand, 

Blind  Faith  and  a dogmatic  Pope 
’Gainst  Reason  free  and  man’s  best  hope, 
For  though  the  Colosseum’s  gone 
We  see  the  endless  fight  still  on. 


[62] 


This  Doubt  is  an  Opti-pessimist, 
Who  is  quite  willing  to  confess 
His  is  a jolly  gruesomeness, 

Or  a much  chastened  cheerfulness. 

Seeing  the  folly  of  extremes, 

Hopes  of  the  absolute,  but  dreams — 
Ever  willing  to  take  sides. 

He  in  amused  perplexity  abides. 


[63] 


The  Devious  Track 


When  men  found  that  their  ancient  Gods 
Were  heroes  deified, 

That  God-like  saints  were  merely  men, 
That  prophets  sometimes  lied. 

They  wondered  at  the  devious  track 
They  long  had  wandered  in. 
Forever  getting  nearer  God 
Along  the  paths  of  Sin. 


Note: — I fear  this  last  line  has  a strangely  familiar  look. 


[64] 


The  Early  Bird 

Where  is  the  child  who  has  not  heard 
The  story  of  the  Early  Bird? 

But  where  is  taught,  in  school  or  chapel, 
The  story  of  the  Worm  and  Apple? 

Surely  we  may  this  truth  affirm: 

There  always  is  an  earlier  Worm; 

So  let  the  child  lay  this  to  heart: 

It  all  depends  upon  the  start. 

The  Apple  must  have  started  fair 
Without  defect  in  any  part, 

Yet  presently  the  Worm  is  there 
Eating  at  its  very  heart. 

Did  Bird  and  Adam  eat  the  fruit? 
Leaving  the  worm  a leafless  brute? 

For  notice,  as  you  see  him  squirm. 

How  naked  seems  the  shameless  Worm. 


[65] 


We  then  approve  the  early  Bird, 

But  when  his  song  of  thanks  is  heard 
Should  it  be  counted  as  a sin 
To  ask  what  sings  the  worm  within? 

Is  a child  taught  in  any  chapel 
The  story  of  the  Worm  and  Apple? 


[66] 


Anno  Domini  1914 


Some  busybodies  stir  up  things  when  level, 

Or  pull  down  things  they  think  have  grown  too  high ; 
For  every  Angel,  promptly  find  a Devil 
And  dig  a Hell  beneath  the  fairest  sky — 

They’re  very  spry. 

But  Doubt  begins  by  doubting  of  the  Devil 
And  naturally  of  Angels  in  the  sky 
Fills  up  the  Hells  till  they  again  are  level 
And  proves  it  also  can  be  very  spry, 

How  hard  both  try. 

Y et  spite  of  all  this  preaching  and  this  pounding 
And  centuries  of  hoarded  wit  and  lore, 

The  Angels  still  the  praise  of  Peace  are  harping 
While  from  the  Hells  we  hear  the  Devils  rocU* 

The  praise  of  War. 


[67] 


Moralizing 


Observe,  and  you  will  soon  discern 
More  are  inclined  to  teach  than  learn, 
And  hear  the  priceless  gift  of  Speech 
Monopolized  by  those  who  Preach. 

How  prone  men  are  to  moralize 
On  everything  that  meets  their  eyes. 

I will  not  quote  the  sparks  that  fly 
Upwards,  but  note  this  tendency. 

That  not  a stone  within  their  reach 
But  holds  a sermon, — so  they  preach. 
They  see  the  cats’  relentless  claws 
Are  deftly  hid  in  velvet  paws; 

The  frugal  ants’  great  industry, 
Shiftless  cicalas’  minstrelsy. 

They  do  compare,  and  make  us  stare 
At  doings  in  natural  history. 

Like  Adam,  the  world  before  them  lies 
Wherein  to  prose  and  moralize. 

But  then  so  obvious  grows  this  crop 
I scorn  to  reap — Shame  bids  me  stop. 


[69] 


The  Eclipse 


Lovers,  they  say,  still  vow  and  sigh 
Neath  thy  bright  rays, 

O huntress  o£  the  sky! 

Though  Science  ignores  Mythology 
Yet  fancy  sees  Thee  patiently 
Counting  thy  month-long  nights  and  days. 
Keeping  thine  orbit’s  strict  integrity. 
What  hopest  Thou?  Some  cosmic  crash 
That  shattering  our  old  world  to  bits, 
May  end  thy  task’s  monotony 
And  from  Earth’s  bondage  set  Thee  free? 


[70] 


A Text 


This  text  that  long  has  seemed  most  fit, 
We  think  needs  brushing  up  a bit. 

The  Lord,  they  say,  is  good  to  all. 

He  even  notes  the  sparrow’s  fall. 

Does  he  prevent  it? — not  at  all. 

Save  in  a very  general  way. 

What  is  this  general  way  about 
When  sparrows  from  their  nests  fall  out? 
Providing  cats  from  day  to  day 
With  fallen  sparrows — we  should  say. 

Were  sparrows  notified  in  time 
They  would  not  fall — but  cats  can  climb, 
And  curtail  genealogic  lines 
To  which  the  sparrow  much  inclines. 

Compared  with  sparrows  cats  are  few 
Yet  for  the  sparrow  seem  to  do. 

Cats  would  be  badly  off  indeed 
If  sparrows  only  took  more  heed. 


[72] 


But  building  nests  unscientific 
Well  may  the  sparrow  prove  prolific, 
Always  in  Nature  something’s  to  blame; 
In  Human  Nature  ’tis  the  same. 

Now  may  we  ask  what  they  are  at? 

The  Lord,  the  sparrow,  and  the  cat? 

Or  ask  in  a more  general  way 
The  nature  of  this  game  they  play? 


[73] 


The  Missionary 

‘Touch  not  the  Faith  thou  dost  not  know.’ 
So  Shakespeare  sings, — if  this  be  so 
How  dare  the  Missionary  mild 
Wreck  the  faith  of  any  child? 

He  can  but  teach  what  he  was  taught, 
Perhaps  a creed  with  error  fraught. 
Learned  when  a little  child  at  home, 
Geneva’s  creed,  or  that  of  Rome, 


[74] 


In  Dogmatists  we  never  find 
Those  tangled  workings  of  the  mind ; 
There  all  is  crisp  and  well  defined. 

To  such  let  us  resign  the  skein. 

They’ll  straighten  out  the  string  again, 
Untie  the  knots  and  make  all  plain. 

With  them  assertion— flat  or  round — 
Has  ever  steadfast  held  its  ground, 
Until  by  sheer  persistency 
A heaven-sent  message  all  men  see. 

But  Doubt  unconquered  holding  out 
From  time  to  time  will  have  its  flout. 


[76] 


Inconclusive 


‘I  wend  me  forth,’ — as  poets  say, 

(That  is,  I take  one  of  my  strolls) 

To  where  lean  Saints  in  deserts  stray 
Losing  their  heads  to  save  their  souls. 

But  well  I know  before  I go. 

That  Hermits  have  one  single  thought — 
What  will  become  of  their  poor  souls. 
To  them  all  other  cares  are  naught. 

No  middle  course  the  Hermit  sees, 

With  him  it’s  either  fry  or  freeze. 
Useless  are  reason,  useless  suggestion; 
You  canot  spoil  a saint’s  digestion. 

So  I wend  back  from  whence  I came. 
They,  not  much  wiser;  I,  the  same. 


[78] 


Responsibility 

All  creeds  in  one  thing  end  the  same: 
God  gets  the  glory,  man  the  blame. 
Call  this  a bargain? — is  it  fair 
To  think  the  Lord  should  have  no  share 
In  his  own  work? — or  at  the  best 
Bear  half  the  burden,  we  the  rest? 
Zealots  say  we  bear  it  all 
And  well  deserve  to  since  the  Fall, 

And  often  bid  us  to  admire 
The  mighty  hand  that  lit  the  Fire. 

Will  zealots  tell  by  whose  desire 
We  make  the  Hell  and  he  the  Fire? 

Is  it,  or  is  it  not,  his  work? 

If  partly  ours  we  should  not  shirk 
To  bear  our  share,  but  is  it  fair — 

His,  all  the  glory — ^we,  the  shame? 


One  God  will  save  the  Sinner,  if  he’s  good. 

Another  would  not  save  him  if  he  could. 

For  he  must  save  himself ; that  is  the  favoured  plan. 
Yet  being  what  he  is,  we  doubt  much  if  he  can. 


[79] 


Inconclusive 


‘I  wend  me  forth,’ — as  poets  say, 

(That  is,  I take  one  of  my  strolls) 

To  where  lean  Saints  in  deserts  stray 
Losing  their  heads  to  save  their  souls. 

But  well  I know  before  I go. 

That  Hermits  have  one  single  thought — 
What  will  become  of  their  poor  souls. 
To  them  all  other  cares  are  naught. 

No  middle  course  the  Hermit  sees, 

With  him  it’s  either  fry  or  freeze. 
Useless  are  reason,  useless  suggestion; 
You  canot  spoil  a saint’s  digestion. 

So  I wend  back  from  whence  I came. 
They,  not  much  wiser;  I,  the  same. 


[78] 


Responsibility 

All  creeds  in  one  thing  end  the  same: 
God  gets  the  glory,  man  the  blame. 
Call  this  a bargain? — is  it  fair 
To  think  the  Lord  should  have  no  share 
In  his  own  work? — or  at  the  best 
Bear  half  the  burden,  we  the  rest? 
Zealots  say  we  bear  it  all 
And  well  deserve  to  since  the  Fall, 

And  often  bid  us  to  admire 
The  mighty  hand  that  lit  the  Fire. 

Will  zealots  tell  by  whose  desire 
We  make  the  Hell  and  he  the  Fire? 

Is  it,  or  is  it  not,  his  work? 

If  partly  ours  we  should  not  shirk 
To  bear  our  share,  but  is  it  fair — 

His,  all  the  glory — ^we,  the  shame? 


One  God  will  save  the  Sinner,  if  he’s  good, 

Another  would  not  save  him  if  he  could. 

For  he  must  save  himself ; that  is  the  favoured  plan. 
Yet  being  what  he  is,  we  doubt  much  if  he  can. 


[79] 


The  Sunday  Dram 

As  little  birds  at  close  of  day 
To  various  perches  find  their  way, 

So  men  repair  to  various  churches 
Seeking  their  theologic  perches; 

The  perch  that  bears  the  slim  canary 
Will  break  beneath  the  cassowary. 

This  has  led  to  some  deep  thinking 
On  the  vice  of  Sunday  drinking, 

For  some  must  have  their  Sunday  dram 
A powerful  blend  of  Bless  and  Damn, 

Which  persevered  in  of  a Sunday 

Leads  to  what  workmen  call  Blue  Monday. 


[80] 


The  Unforeseen 


We  often  see  the  unforeseen 
Will  wreck  the  cunningest  machine. 
Does  Nature  then  her  own  work  mar 
In  cooling  sun  or  clashing  star? 

Or  does  she  see  the  unforeseen? 

That  would  be  Fate — How  about  Man? 
Is  he  excluded  from  the  plan? 

Does  he  not  also  make  and  mar, 

Or  shares  he  the  fate  of  sun  and  star? 


[81] 


A Question 

God  certainly  has  his  own  way 
His  lessons  to  impart, 

But  would  we  treat  a school-boy  so 
And  see  him  to  perdition  go, 

Or  break  his  sorrowing  heart. 
Because  he’d  disobeyed  some  rule. 
Perhaps  on  his  first  day  at  school? 


[82] 


The  Antidote 


We  cannot  think  ’tis  Nature’s  plan 
To  damn  the  greater  part  of  man; 

Yet  eminent  persons  give  it  out 
That  we’ll  be  damned  if  we  but  doubt. 
And  here  we  will  the  doctors  quote 
Who  find  in  bane  the  antidote. 

For  Nature  keeps  a high-priced  school 
In  which  men  often  play  the  fool. 

See  with  what  skill  her  mighty  hand 
Fills  the  fatal  poison-gland, 

And  paints  the  adder’s  gaudy  coat 
That  the  incautious  fool  may  find — 
The  Antidote. 


[83] 


The  Enemy  Sowing  Tares 

To  Satan  then  we  come  at  last, 

His  brow  with  clouds  of  doubt  o’er  cast, 
Wandering  on  his  self-made  way. 

Who  cannot  rule  nor  yet  obey. 

See  him  sowing  tares  by  night. 

Tares  of  gold  with  great  delight. 

At  the  foot  of  that  dread  tree 
Wet  with  blood  on  Calvary, 

After — what  harvest  shall  man  see? 


[84] 


The  Predicament 


Science  admits,  or  seems  to  see 
That  “I”  persists — not  so  the  *‘Me”; 
That  “I”  lives  on  eternally; 

The  fate  of  “Me” — Mortality. 

For  “I,”  the  prospect  is  sublime. 

While  “Me”  seems  but  the  sport  of  Time 
Or  chance  and  shifting  circumstance, 
Forever  hurrying  it  on 
To  its  dark  end — Oblivion. 


[86] 


Men  worship  trees  and  aeroliths. 
Ancestral  bones  and  Hero-myths, 
Then  shroud  in  symbols  mysteries, 
And  worship  them  on  bended  knees — 
Crescents,  crosses,  double-keys — 
But  worship  most,  if  truth  be  told. 
The  Symbol  of  ‘Almighty  Gold.’ 


[88] 


Fear 


Fear  is  a Fiend  that  wanders  in 
The  fairest  fields  of  Arcady, 
Shadow  of  Joy  that  longer  grows 
As  the  bright  day  sinks  to  its  close, 
Till  mingling  in  the  shades  of  night 
Joy  and  Fear  sink  out  of  sight. 


[89] 


Atomic  Responsibility 

Men  like  dazzled  moths  revolve 
About  the  light  they  cannot  solve, 

’Tis  so  about  this  theory, 

‘Atomic  responsibility.’ 

Does  each  atom  bear  its  part 
And  aid  great  Nature’s  beating  heart? 
Or  by  opposing  bring  about 
The  fruitless  anarchy  of  Doubt? 


[90] 


Faith 


Look  at  the  humble  dog’s  mute  Faith. 
His  honest  face  no  doubt  doth  show, 
No  warmer  Faith  than  his  can  glow 
In  any  human  heart  below; 

And  if  his  Faith  is  in  the  plan 
How  then  can  Doubt  deny  it  Man? 


Eyesight 

Man,  from  his  defective  eyesight  never  free, 
Is  blamed  for  what  he  sees  or  cannot  see. 
For  misfortunes  he  can  never  find  a screen; 
He’s  blamed  for  what  he  cannot  have  foreseen. 

Say  all  ends  well,  and  I must  be  content; 

Say  all  looks  well,  and  I must  needs  dissent. 


Useless  are  denunciations. 

They  but  lead  to  reformations. 

Which  in  their  turn  must  be  reformed, 
The  defective  giving  birth  to 

The  deformed. 


[92] 


Man’s  Need 


As  when  a bold  ship  breasts  the  main, 
The  stronger  rigging  stands  the  strain 
When  weaker  ropes  break  free, 

So  the  strong  trust  that  ‘God  knows  best’ 
Sustains  the  Soul  when  all  the  rest 
Is  lost  in  Life’s  raging  sea. 

Then  let  Doubt  do  its  very  best. 

Doubt  long  enough — you’ll  need  a rest. 

And  finally  agree 

The  guidance  of  this  universe. 

Thy  birthplace  and  mysterious  nurse. 

Is  not  a task  for  Thee. 

Fear  not  a preacher  in  disguise, 

’Tis  only  one  who  only  tries 
To  show  himself  and  Thee, 

That  in  this  turmoil  of  the  mind 
A God  man  needs,  and  seeks  to  find 
Through  all  Eternity. 


[93] 


Gazing  as  we  now  do  on  the  skies 
With  ever  keener,  ever  stronger  eyes, 

We  see  such  signs  of  Wisdom  and  of  Power, 
That  a belief  seems  growing  hour  by  hour. 

A Vision  that  doth  the  Soul  entrance 
’Tis  of  a Faith,  not  based  of  Ignorance: 

A Faith,  which  yet  in  time  may  set  aside 
The  dreams  of  Saints  and  philosophic  pride. 


[94] 


This  seeming  endless  Theme, 
This  book  without  a scope, 
Let  both  end  where  all  Doubt 
Must  end,  in  one  word — 


[96] 


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rv 


Foreword 


In  my  Crusoe  isolation 
Many  things  I save  in  verse 
Which  I might  in  conversation 
Wise,  or  otherwise,  disperse. 

/ am  absolutely  ignorant  of  the  Art  of  versification.  / don’t  know 
the  difference  between  an  ’Anapcest’  and  a ‘Spondee.’  I cherish 
this  ignorance  {which  a reference  to  an  unabridged  would  dispell) 
for  the  purpose  of  trying  what  a man  with  some  traces  of  literary, 
poetic,  and  critical  faculties  could  do,  were  the  expression  of  his 
thoughts  confined  to  verse  alone.  Besides — 

Bubbles  often  keep  afloat 
Things  that  otherwise  would  sink, 

So  words  by  one  not  very  wise 
May  cause  far  wiser  men  to  think. 

In  other  words  a house  I build 
That  will  require  much  greater  wit. 

In  patching  up,  or  pulling  down. 

Than  was  employed  in  building  it. 


[99] 


Evidently  Under  Influence 

Some  aim  to  make  the  frightened  reader’s  flesh  creep 
And  some  to  make  that  gentle  being’s  eyes  weep, 
But  I — casting  aside  such  worn  out  wiles, 

Aim  only  to  provoke  that  curious  creature’s  smiles. 

Quite  true  it  is  that  I ought  not  to  roam 
In  fields  where  others  are  much  more  at  home ; 

But  nothing  daunted  I keep  on  my  fool-track 
Where  Angels  (timid  things)  are  seen  to  draw  back. 

Surely,  strange  influences  must  be  at  work 
Urging  me  on  to  work  I ought  to  shirk; 

Truly  miraculous  must  be  that  strange  thing, 
Which  makes  one  born  poetically  dumb,  sing. 


[100] 


Some  Jokes 

Some  things  I write  not  out  of  spite 
But  merely  from  a sense  of  fun, 

And  there  I make  a great  mistake 
And  wish  I never  had  begun ; 

For  few  there  are,  I’ve  found  thus  far. 
Who  like  a joke  at  their  expense; 

But  this  is  wisdom  that  we  learn 
Solely  through  experience. 

Jokes  must  be  heard  before  they’re  seen. 
Yet  how  absurd — they  lurk  between 
Serious  lines,  and  then  are  seen. 

As  one  may  say — before  they’re  heard 
And  only  after  hailed  with  laughter. 

Time  sweeps  away  like  chaff  the  laugh, 
But  it  returns  and  gives  again 
Its  joy  or  its  spasmodic  pain; 

I mean  the  joke  that’s  like  a poke 
The  ribs  between;  although  not  seen 
The  pain  is  keen  and  leaves  us  sore. 

To  such  we  never  cry  ‘Encore!’ 


[101] 


Optics 


Our  eyes  like  wrinkled  panes  of  glass 
See  all  things  crooked  as  they  pass, 
Reason,  the  Optician,  tries 
To  straighten  our  defective  eyes. 

I think  it  can  be  proved  with  ease 
That  man  all  things  through  glasses  sees. 
Tinged  by  the  rainbow’s  varied  hues 
From  orange-red  to  purple-blues. 

Old-fashioned  spectacles,  we  find. 

Best  suit  the  philosophic  mind; 

While  Sages,  specks  of  pale  sage-green 
For  introspective  use  are  seen. 

Astronomers  through  telescopes, 
Microscopists  through  microscopes. 
Observe  the  distant  and  the  near, 

The  latter  finding  much  that’s  queer. 

Soldiers  through  red  the  carnage  view, 
Their  leaders  cool  through  Prussian-blue ; 
Yet  these  same  leaders,  when  off  duty. 
Warmly  review  the  passing  beauty. 

See  how  with  purple  glows  the  glass 
As  the  long  line  of  prelates  pass. 

Each  hopes  for  a more  crimson  glow, 

The  line  is  long  and  Death  seems  slow. 


[102] 


All  know  how  rosy  is  the  morn 
Seen  through  the  hunter’s  early  horn, 

Of  course  I mean  his  early  glass, — 
That’s  a poor  joke,  but  let  it  pass. 

It  is  the  lover  and  his  lass 
Who  first  see  life  through  the  same  glass 
But  grey-beard  Time  to  their  surprise 
Soon  changes  both  the  glass  and  eyes. 

But  chiefly  the  Kaleidoscope, 

Fit  emblem  of  fallacious  Hope, 

Remains  the  best  of  all  man’s  toys. 

The  first  he  joys  in, — last  enjoys. 

But  why  should  we  the  list  extend? 
These  aids  to  sight  will  never  end 
Till  Death,  the  Glazier,  comes  along 
Glazing  our  eyes  and  ends  our  song. 


[103] 


Adam 


Some  temptations  are  immense; 

We  cannot  all  say  ‘Get  thee  hence.’ 

But  more  especially  just  when 
Resistance  seems  to  common  men 
Almost  like  flying  in  the  face 
Of  a kindly  providence. 

What!  left  alone  with  but  one  woman, 

She  so  charming — he  so  human, 

Both  without  experience 

Wandering  in  fond  dalliance 

Where  the  sunlight  softly  dapples 

The  couch-like  grass  mid  gleaming  apples; 

Add  to  which  no  fear  of  Hell — 

Of  course  poor  Adam  promptly  fell. 


[104] 


Equality 

Men  are  born  equal — at  least  they  say  so, 
Then  in  God’s  name  why  don’t  they  stay  so? 

Make  men  equal,  if  you  please. 

Set  a Newton  shelling  pease, 

Set  Edison  a-popping  corn; 

So  botch  a spoon  and  spoil  a horn. 

We  now  say:  at  all  expense 
Cultivate  your  comm.on  sense. 

Common  surely  it  should  be, 

Y et  is  the  rarest  thing  we  see. 

For  with  the  cart  before  the  horse 
Into  the  ditch  we  go,  of  course. 


[105] 


The  Temple  Door 

Rising  from  my  troubled  sleep, 

Weary  of  counting  the  passing  hours, 

I stand  and  gaze  on  sleeping  Rome 
And  count  her  centuries  of  power; 
Pondering  on  the  solemn  sight 
So  dim  I scarcely  can  decide 
If  Janus’  ancient  temple  door 
Stands  but  ajar — or  open  wide; 

Or  if  old  Mars,  dread  God  of  War, 
Beholds  again  with  grim  delight 
Rising  and  spreading  as  of  yore 
The  crimson  desolating  tide, 

Alas!  I fear  the  temple  door 
Stands  not  ajar — but  open  wide. 

(February  15,  1915.) 


[106] 


Absurd 

Pope,  Kaiser,  Czar,  and  Emperor, 
Opposing  powers — alike  all  pray 
To  one  God  for  the  Victory. 

Each  never  doubting  in  the  end 
To  him  God  will  the  Victory  send. 
How  can  they  think  without  a shock 
That  God  can  be  a weather-cock 
And  turn  to  each  the  Victory? 
Nevertheless  they  go  on  praying. 
Industriously  each  other  slaying. 
Never  doubting  in  the  end 
God  will  to  each  the  Victory  send. 


[107] 


A Song 

I seem  forever  hearing 
A soul  that  sings  alone, 

Or  is  it  only  sighing, 

It  has  so  sad  a tone? 

Yet  ever  in  the  twilight. 

When  sounds  are  hushed  and  low. 
It  seems  forever  saying: 

‘My  song  Thou  soon  shalt  know/ 

Is  it  a traveller  weary 
Singing  to  cheer  his  way? 

His  journey  nearly  ended 
As  ended  is  the  day? 

Dear  Soul,  canst  find  no  other  song 
To  cheer  me  on  my  way? 


[108] 


Marsyas 

Poor  Marsyas,  scorned  by  great  Apollo 
Because  the  landscape  did  not  follow 
The  gentle  pipings  of  his  flute, 
Remained  not  mute. 

From  shady  dell  or  rocky  waste 
His  humble  little  friends  all  haste 
Drawn  by  his  spell; 

To  them  his  music  seemed  more  real 
Than  the  Olympian’s  ideal — 

Nearer  the  heart. 

And  so  he  ever  pipes  apart. 

Nor  will  he  Apollo’s  motto  take — 

‘Art  for  Art’s  sake.’ 


[109] 


Poetry 

Of  all  the  vainest  things  on  earth, 

The  most  deprived  of  wholesome  mirth, 
It  strikes  me  ‘Poetry’  is  the  worst. 

Yet  some  must  write  it  lest  they  burst. 

You  do  not  say  what  you  intend. 

You  do  not  go  straight  to  your  end. 

But  go  about  and  spend  your  time 
In  seeking  what  words  best  will  rhyme. 
’Tis  plain  as  on  the  face  the  nose 
That  you  had  better  write  in  prose. 


[110] 


Rhyme 

The  power  of  Rhyme,  like  that  of  Time, 
Must  cause  the  loftiest  Bards  to  bow, 

And  make  them  use  time  after  time 
The  silly  rhymes  I’m  using  now. 

So  should  the  wind  but  bow  a bough 
That  bough  for  sake  of  rhyme  must  sough, 
Or  should  the  wild  wind  prove  unkind 
Some  solitary  leaf  ’twill  find 
And  tear  it  from  the  soughing  bough — 
Thus  making  its  brief  life  more  brief 
And  like  this  ending  a relief. 


[Ill] 


Nineteen  Fifteen 


Could  Science  make  Faith  scientific, 
Thus  a Religion  ‘a  la  mode,’ 

We’d  find  that  such  a creed  eclectic 
Would  need  the  broadest  kind  of  road. 

For  now  the  ancient  roads  seem  narrow. 
The  Star  of  Bethlehem  grown  dim. 
Angelic  greetings  far  too  hopeful. 
Unverified  their  lovely  hymn. 

Instead  with  glad  hymn  megaphonic 
We  greet  a new  electric  Star, 

And  as  we  fondly  gaze  upon  it 
Hope  we  have  seen  the  end  of  War. 

Now  ‘Peace  on  Earth’  men  hear  again. 
Again  the  nations  see  delighted 
That  Peace,  a dove — like  Aeroplane— 
But  fully  armed — has  just  alighted. 


(Written  at  Capri,  November  24,  1915,  and,  alas!  still  true  in  1920.) 


[112] 


If  the  Old  Testament  is  true, 

This  earth  was  made  but  for  the  Jew, 

Or  for  Jews  whose  views  are  broader 
Just  Philistines  enough  to  plunder. 

The  rest  may  take  for  all  they  care 

Both  Heaven  and  Hell, — the  World’s  their  share; 

Nor  do  they  care  to  spread  their  creed. 

Well  knowing  the  insatiate  greed 
Of  men  for  gold  makes  one  vast  Creed 
Where  all  join  hands  and  gaily  laugh 
As  they  go  round  the  Golden  Calf. 

For  Jews  and  Gentiles  now  adore 
The  Golden  Calf  just  as  before. 


^ edVe  rf\e  jar  ess  ctn<l  li\e_yew,  Tvees  t»'i.u£  ; 
ifi^vouud  all  C(A>e\:e^  ^i\o*w, 

IFial'  n.olr  a,  nia-t|  c^iunv^tb  >i\ock  <>vu*  0)oe/ 

/\ucl  soleii-in  iii*'‘^^icii\ake^Tnne<l  1«  ifxe  fiea^ 

Of  ifio  se  V>l\o  lo  n'Lovmi  itieiX'  . tl'eacl 

if^e  cUliujo  u|DKtvn.ei  Soi  ,i\oi\e  \i\c^  cts):>u*e 
jojoin  \f\e  i\e.a.VgKlv|  c^tcire  ^bu.l‘ all  n\ushWcuh 
Ti\e  Jucl^  em  e )\1"  Daij-  )lA.e  C v-cice  o f9  oi  Of 

r' '»  "XT 


Let  eam^Tombs  stam®)  the  "busy  highway  neak  , 
Vv/HEi^e  The  £)FA1>  a\ay  HeaK  the  wine-caKT  Jo^qimg  BY  , 

Or, THE  URGING  CRY  oF  THE  PASSING  CHARioTEER; 

vAnI)  TRorA  Tut  NE<GHB0R\MG  TiEi-t)  ^ THE  LARK  , 

Aim'd  aLL  about  the  SoUMt>  oT  LtTt’^  RlAT>  CHEER. 

VyHEN  WE  TrO/^  the  pyre  THEIRWHiTE  A^HES  TAKE 

V/E  Will  LIBATi ONS  TOUR- AMO  AvERRY  -~^AK.e 

* WK^ 

To  CHEERTHEA  AS  oT  YoRE^AMD  DRESS  W iTH  FLOWERS.  THE 
Tor  STlRJTS  YEARN  0\JR  JOYS  To  SHARE  ,SO  iT  iS  BEST 
Mot  To  satde N ^BuT  cladiien  their  lomc  peacetuL  'R^st. 


The  Letter  I 


A word  that  needs  but  little  spelling 
Stands  for  an  imp  in  all  minds  dwelling, 
Or  rather  that  selfish,  tiresome  elf 
Heard  when  a man  talks  of  himself. 

In  print  ’tis  often  turned  to  We, 

A thin  disguise  through  which  we  see. 
As  clearly  as  in  milk  the  fly. 

He  longs  to  use  the  letter  I. 


[116] 


The  Sonnet 


To  one  idea  cling  like  death 
Scarcely  stopping  to  take  breath; 

Touch  lightly  on  Mythology — 

Avoid  like  H.  Theology — 

And  plethoric  Redundancy. 

Then  climb  that  peak  in  Darien, 

And  with  Balboa  and  his  men 
Gaze,  not  silently,  around. 

Remember  Sonnets  are  all  sound 
Save  in  that  slight  expectant  hush 
That  follows  your  last  fantastic  rush. 

When — if  you’ve  kept  your  mind  upon  it — 
Your  fourteenth  line  achieves — The  Sonnet. 


[117] 


A Sigh 

Now  come  the  dreamy  days  of  Age 
When  pleasures  past  as  in  a haze 
Seem  magnified; 

And  present  skies — however  fair — 
Seem  overcast; 

Or  if  with  sunset’s  hues  made  bright, 
Serve  as  the  prelude  to  the  night — 
The  dreamless  Night. 


[118] 


The  Weeping  Willow 

Look  gently  on  this  old-fashioned  tree 
Where  dew  has  often  been  replaced  by  tears 
For  in  the  drooping  of  its  pendant  leaves 
The  tender  color  of  undying  Hope  appears. 


[119] 


To  a Youth 


This  Truth  no  poet  yet  hath  told, 
A Truth  I now  confide  to  Thee, — 
That  Time  is  ever  Young,  not  Old, 
As  fresh  as  Venus  from  the  sea; 
Ever  leading  by  the  hand 
Priceless  Opportunity. 

Make  her  your  bride  or  you’ll  regret, 
And  yet,  and  yet,  and  yet,  and  yet. 
It’s  only  now  that  I regret. 


[120] 


A Dinner  Declined 


It  is  so  neat — ‘All  is  illusion.’ 

Shall  I turn  this  to  confusion 
By  advocating  things  are  real? 

Such  as  my  years  that  Time  doth  steal. 

Do  pangs  nephritic — nothing  seem 
To  those  who  suffer— or  a dream? 

Age  may  have  Honor,  not  Immunity. 

So  while  I worship  the  Ideal 
I must  regard  my  pangs  as  Real, 

And  give  up  many  pleasant  things; 

Strange ! how  my  heart  with  youth  still  sing^ 


[121] 


Verdun 


An  utter  disregard  of  reason 
Filled  the  trenches  of  Verdun; 

Science  is  both  good  and  evil, 
Neighbors  the  hospital  and  gun, 

As  sharper  grows  Minerva’s  lance 
So  greater  grows  the  power  of  chance. 

Of  all  the  wasteful  remedies 
War  is  probably  the  worst. 

And  yet  man  turns  to  it  the  first; 
Strange  cure  in  which  the  doctor  kills 
His  patient  to  remove  his  ills. 

We  see  the  mills  of  God  grind  slow, 
Effect  from  cause  of  course  should  flow, 
But  from  between  the  stones  how  know, 
Why  grind  at  all,  or  grind  so  slow? 

If  the  foregoing  be  a lie 

Pray  cast  about — what  meets  the  eye? 

Alas ! But  for  its  melancholy 

A smile  should  greet  such  frightful  folly. 


[122] 


Up  to  Date 

There  is  a power  that  shapes  our  ends 
Rough-hew  them  as  we  may, 

And  roughly  speaking  that  is  what 
We  see  takes  place  today. 

For  in  mysterious  ways  it  moves 
And  wonders  it  performs 
In  wars  and  famines,  pestilence. 

And  devastating  storms. 

And  that  is  why  all  people  say 
It  moves  in  a mysterious  way. 

Napoleon  was  a providence — 

So  it  is  held  today; 

For  Freedom’s  bird  to  George  the  Third 
A debt  we  owe  today. 

Through  Bismarcks,  Kaisers,  Emperors, 
Great  Frederick  led  the  way. 

Up  to  the  glorious  Victories 
That  are  taking  place  today. 

So  have  no  fear — all  must  be  right 
Where  Kings  and  Providence  unite. 

No  matter  on  which  side  you  fight 
Though  the  Devil  is  to  pay. 


[123] 


Packed  Down 


I make  a poem  I think  fine, 

Each  stanza  like  long  hoarded  wine 
Flowing  smooth,  mellifluous. 

Which  then  I fittingly  enshrine 
In  border  quaint  of  twisted  wine — 

A task  perhaps  superfluous. 

But  never  felt  I so  ‘packed  down’ 

As  when  a youth  from  London  Town, 
A writer  famed  and  witty, 

Passed  on  my  decorated  verse 
A judgement  I think  rather  terse — 
‘The  border’s  very  pretty.’ 


[124] 


Quotations 

Do  what  you  will,  three  fingers  still 
You  must  employ  in  writing, 

These  fingers  are — With  Grace  and  Power 
In  various  ways  uniting ; 

Also  the  Head  leave  not  apart. 

But  if  from  the  Heart  you  wander 
Right  from  the  start,  with  all  your  Art, 
Your  pen  and  ink  you  squander. 

Dear  me,  today  how  rhyme  will  stray! 
How  far  on  its  tide  I’ve  floated! 

For  what  I really  meant  to  say 
Was — write  what  will  be  quoted. 


(December  17,  1915.  Capri.) 


[125] 


The  Hermit 


‘Gentle  Hermit,  dost  thou  dwell 
Contented  in  thy  little  cell?’ 

‘Aye,  Pilgrim,  once  I followed  long 
A Siren,  listening  to  her  song. 

Yet  never  could  I reach  her  side. 

And  now  contented  I abide.’ 

‘But  tell  me.  Pilgrim,  why  dost  roam 
So  far  from  kindred,  far  from  home?’ 
‘Hermit,  I see  beyond  yon  sky 
That  cloudless  lands  forever  lie; 

The  road  is  long  and  short  the  day 
So  I must  hasten  on  my  way.’ 

‘Stay,  Pilgrim,  stay,  ’tis  almost  night.’ 
‘Nay,  Hermit,  nay — beyond  ’tis  bright.* 

Do  Sirens’  songs  but  lead  astray? 

The  Hermit’s  cell  prove  but  his  tomb? 
Did  the  Pilgrim  find  the  light 
Or  was  he  lost  in  the  night’s  gloom? 
Are  those  bright  lands  beyond  the  sky 
But  dreams  and  not  reality? 

Can  Pilgrim  tell — can  Hermit  say. 
That  only  Sirens  lead  astray? 


[126] 


Luna 

Lone  gazer  on  Earth’s  dreaming  night, 
Not  always  with  unmixed  delight 
We  gaze  on  Thee,  for  thy  pale  rays 
Too  often  bring  sad  memories 
Of  things  forever  gone  and  happier  days. 


[127] 


M.D.’s  and  D.D.’s 


Doctors,  in  hunting  a disease, 

Think  they  have  killed  or  maimed  it 
When  truth  to  tell  they’ve  merely  found 
An  old  one  and  renamed  it. 

So  doctors  of  Divinity 

Will  go  on  to  infinity 

Trying  to  cure  our  moral  ills 

Not  with  real  bread,  but  with  bread-pills. 

They  may  be  right  but  I feel  sure 
That  Life  for  us  is  a long  cure 
Of  an  inherited  disease. 

And  doubt  if  Dr.  Death  gives  ease. 


[128] 


To  William  Graham 


Now  V.  is  very  well  informed 
And  not  averse  to  show  it. 

Seek  not  to  tell  him  something  new — 

He’s  sure  to  say  ‘I  know  it.’ 

V.  met  one  day  his  old  friend  G. 

And  gave  that  opportunity 
For  which  G.  long  had  waited, 

By  saying — ‘Well,  that’s  new  to  me.’ 

‘Thank  God,’  was  the  simple  repartee. 

And  G.  went  off  elated. 

This  friend  whose  name’s  unknown  to  Fame, 
(Who  seems  disposed  to  hide  it) 

Will  have,  if  we  but  wait,  his  day. 

Then  V.  will  say  ‘I  knew  it.’ 


[129] 


Parody 

Vile  Parody’s  a parasite, 

A fungus  growth,  a dreaded  blight 
That  oft  the  noblest  poem  spoils. 

For  Parody  picks  out  the  best 
And  in  it  makes  an  ‘ill  bird’s  nest.’ 

This  harpy  of  the  clever  mind 
Receives  much  praise  but  leaves  behind 
An  odor  faint  as  of  a tomb. 

Where  lie  fair  flowers  robbed  of  their  bloom. 
Or  sense  of  something  lovely  slain 
That  never  more  will  live  again. 


[130] 


The  Victors 


In  Life’s  triumphant  chariot  ride 
The  strong,  and  proudly  wave  aside 
All  sorrow,  pain,  and  grief; 

Who  breathing  in  the  joy  of  life 
Cannot  conceive  that  for  the  strife 
One  life  is  far  too  brief. 

But  clad  like  glorious  kings  of  old 
In  royal  purple  and  in  gold. 

Heed  not  that  pallid  slave. 

That  somber  slave  who  mocks  their  pride. 
Forever  whispering  at  their  side, 

‘Thou  goest  to  thy  grave.’ 


[131] 


Revery 

Old!  Yes,  but  not  in  revery; 

Young,  poor,  and  gloriously  free — 
Today  again  I sketching  go 
In  thy  fair  land,  Boccaccio. 

See  where  my  model  waits  for  me 
Under  that  ancient  olive  tree; 

No  classic  nymph  or  dryad  she, 

But  a real  girl  in  Tuscany. 

Yet  something  classic  lingers  there, 

For  Zephyrus  toys  with  her  hair, 

And  in  her  softly  shaded  eyes 
Amor  slyly  lurking  lies. 

‘Cara,  the  sun  is  getting  low. 

One  kiss  more  and  I must  go; 

But  where  is  that  bright-eyed  little  fellow 
Who  carries  my  box  and  my  “ombrello”? 
“Peccato”  that  reveries  must  close.’ 
‘Quando  tomi?’ — ‘God  only  knows.’ 


A sketch,  and  low!  a revery; 

A sweet  girl  waits  beneath  a tree 
Forever  in  sunny  Tuscany; 

At  least  in  an  old  man’s  memory. 


[132] 


The  Land  of  Song 

Italy  is  ‘The  Land  of  Song.’ 

The  question  is,  good  Lord,  how  long 
Can  one  this  lasting  rumpus  stand 
Before  he  quits  this  lovely  land? 

Donkeys  begin  it  in  the  spring. 

And  urged  by  Love  uproarious  sing; 
The  natives  then  take  up  the  tale. 

And  working  or  idle  never  fail 
To  fill  the  air  both  day  and  night 
With  sounds  that  harrow  and  afright. 
The  loud  picuio’s  pounding  note — 
Organic  tunes  ground  out  by  rote — 
The  beggar’s  passionate  appeal — 
Midnight  roisterers  as  they  reel — 

The  lover’s  agonizing  yell — 

Suggest  the  usefulness  of  Hell. 

Add  to  which  they  never  scorn 
To  ply  the  tiresome  auto’s  horn. 

Such  sounds  kept  up  the  live-long  year 
So  tire  the  much  abused  ear, 

That  one  begins  at  length  to  long 
To  quit  this  lovely  ‘Land  of  Song.’ 


[133] 


Why  Explain? 

This  picture  I need  not  explain, 

In  Art  the  last  cry  makes  this  plain — 
‘Ideas  are  useless,  Subjects  vain.’ 

If  good  design  and  vital  line 
But  strike  the  eye  and  satisfy 
In  modem  stuff — it  is  enough. 

Then  why  on  earth  should  I explain? 

Take  out  the  ‘if’  and  good  design. 
Also  omit  the  vital  line. 

But  shock,  amaze,  and  strike  the  eye; 
You’ll  satisfy  the  ‘Modern  Cry.’ 


[134] 


A Fearful  Thought 


How  silent  Time  steals  on  apace 
And  with  his  blurring  finger  doth  efface 
Our  little  footsteps,  leaving  not  a trace, — 
Even  when  stamped  on  monumental  brass 
Teaching  the  old  lesson  ‘All  must  pass.’ 

And  yet  ’tis  said  our  careless  words 
Live  on  when  we  are  gone;  mere  breath 
Defying  that  dread  change  called  Death. 

Oh!  fearful  thought,  shall  we  again 
Hear  our  own  words?  Perchance  condemned 
By  our  own  breath,  and  learn  our  doom 
In  hollow  whispers  from  the  Tomb? 


[135] 


Alfaru 


Named  by  his  parents  Elihu, 

One  Vedder  built  in  Zanadu 
Or  thereabouts,  or  did  decree 
A spelling-dome  (not  spelling-bee) 

Or  home  for  his  new  Alphabet 
Which  with  its  cryptic  letters  set 
In-Com-pre-hen-si-ble  to  Man, 

Its  fated  course  too  quickly  ran 
Down  to  dark  Omega’s  Sea. 

This  scheme  called  Alfaru  looked  fine 
And  indeed  ’twas  grand  to  see. 

How  each  Sound  had  its  proper  Sign, 
How  each  Sign  did  with  Sound  agree. 
Now  what  occurred  this  scheme  to  balk? 
It  made  you  spell  just  as  you  talk. 

Or  made  you  talk  just  as  you  spell. 

In  either  case  not  very  well. 

And  so  ’twas  promptly  sent — ^to  Hell. 


[136] 


Spelling 

When  by  spelling  sore  beset 
(My  usual  quandary) 

I seek  at  once  without  delay 
My  Webster’s  Dictionary. 

High  would  my  Muse  delighted  soar 
On  pinions  light  and  airy, 

But  what  it  knows  its  safety  lies 
In  Webster’s  Dictionary. 

Saddled  with  which  my  Pegasus 
Plods  on  with  footsteps  wary. 

How  can  the  poor  thing  sing  and  soar 
Under  a Dictionary? 


[137] 


To  an  Old  Man 

For  thee  thy  race  is  run; 

All  has  been  said  or  done, 

Thou  hast  the  Victor’s  crown, 

Or — thou  hast  none. 

Or  stand  forgotten. 

Thy  wreath  no  longer  green; 

Or  crowned,  thy  crown 
As  yet — unseen. 

Better  so,  than  seen  by  flashes 
Clothed  in  sackcloth  and  in  ashes. 


[138] 


Bitter-Sweet 

Nature  for  her  sweetest  dish 
Prepares  a bitter  sauce, 

For  what  appears  a present  gain 
Turns  out  a future  loss, 

As  when  the  toiler  once  set  free 
Turns  out  to  be  a Boss. 

Here  an  old  maxim  comes  in  neat — 
‘Accept  the  Bitter  with  the  Sweet.’ 
Did  not  Doubt  ask  ‘Is  this  a Law? 
Or  is  it  but  an  ancient  Saw?’ 

No  ancient  Saw — man’s  daily  meat 
By  a stern  Law  is — Bitter-Sweet. 


[139] 


Hermits 


Hermits  we  know  as  mild  old  men 
Sitting  by  caves  or  purling  brooks, 

Engaged  in  prayer  or  telling  beads, 
Observing  skulls  or  reading  books. 

Their  food,  they  say,  is  brought  each  day 
To  them  by  ravens  or  pious  rooks. 

We’re  never  told  of  all  those  others 
Who  fled  the  world  their  souls  to  save, 
Those  poor  wandering  half-crazed  brothers 
Who  found  in  the  desert  but  a grave. 

’Tis  always  the  blessed  ones  who  saw 
The  Heavens  opening  to  their  eyes 
And  Angels  bright,  with  crowns  and  songs 
Welcoming  them  to  paradise. 


[140] 


WHO  FLED  THE  WORLD  THEIR  SOULS  TO  SAVE 


Classification 


Now  Critics  all  things  classify 
And  put  a stamp  on  goods  and  brains, 
And  going  o’er  a man’s  remains 
Either  approve  or  crucify; 

And  are  much  vexed  in  finding  some 
They  cannot  put  their  stamp  upon. 

This  one  they  find  a mighty  thinker, 
This  a mere  literary  tinker. 

This  seeming  saint  a fearful  sinner. 
This  volume  thick  ought  to  be  thinner. 
This  one  was  born  before  his  time, 

This  one  too  late  to  start  the  climb. 

In  fact  their  ‘forte’  is  finding  fault 
Chiefly  in  men  we  most  exalt. 


[142] 


Technique 


A KICK 


Technique  teaches  Words  should  flow 
In  ancient  channels,  cold  as  snow, 
Where  frozen  lines  are  born  along 
Deprived  of  all  that  made  them  song ; 
Then  laid  in  Technique’s  narrow  grave 
To  moulder  in  oblivion. 

If  these  thy  lessons,  fair  Technique, 
Some  other  mistress  must  I seek. 


[143] 


The  Three  Knights 


Three  glorious  Knights  came  riding  by, 

The  very  pink  of  chivalry. 

‘Had,*  the  regretful,  slow  of  pace, 

‘Have,*  ever  questioning  ‘Will-Have’s*  face. 
And  ‘Will-Have,*  of  the  hopeful  eye. 

All  valiant  Knights  and  famed. 

‘Had*  once  possessed  the  fair  domains 
Where  ‘Have*  precariously  reigns; 

While  ‘Will-Have’  gazes  at  the  sky. 

Where  his  possessions  mostly  lie. 

Yes — they  are  aptly  named. 


[144] 


Wistful  Shade,  was  Thou  just  saying 
We  were  lovers  long  ago? 

Dost  Thou  think  I can  remember? 

It  may  possibly  be  so. 

Didst  Thou  say  ’twas  long  ago? 

True — I mind  me  of  eyes  gleaming 
As  we  see  them  when  we’re  dreaming ; 
Y es,  and  hair  dark  as  night 
And  hasty  footsteps  light 
And  whispered  greetings  low, 

And  fond  arms  about  me  clinging 
While  a moon  was  somewhere  shining 
And  a nightingale  was  singing, 

In  a garden  long  ago. 

Ah  yes!  I now  remember, 

In  Florence  long  ago. 


[146] 


A Birthday  Gift 

Gentle  Maid,  be  not  afraid 
Your  secret  I’ll  disclose, 

From  friends  a waggon-load  of  flowers; 
From  you,  a single  rose. 

A single  rose  as  white  as  snow. 

Yet  in  this  breast  why  such  a glow? 


Aged  Seventy-Four 

A happy  change 
Kind  friends  have  wrought 
And  made  that  extra  four  seem  naught. 

Let  them  respect  the  seven; 

To  take  that  off  should  they  succeed 
I’d  be  reduced  to  naught  indeed 
Unfit  for  earth  or  heaven. 

Better  by  far  that  they  should  see 
A frisky  youth  of  seventy 
Signing  himself  sincerely 


[146] 


A Precept 

‘Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry’ 
Seems  a jolly  good  rule 
When  used  with  discretion 
But  not  like  a fool. 

As  a sound  moral  precept 
It  makes  a poor  show. 

Yet  most  of  us  use  it 
(But  we  do  not  say  so). 

If  you’re  going  to  glory 
Why  be  sad  on  the  way? 

If  you  doubt  getting  there — 
Then  brace  up  and  get  gay. 

So  with  modifications 
I think  we  should  try 
To  use  it  a little, 

‘For  tomorrow  we  die.’ 


In  other  words. 

We  either  live  forever 

Or  through  space  our  soul  we  scatter. 

In  one  case  there’s  no  hurry, 

In  the  other  case — no  matter. 


[147] 


Heredity 

A curious  twist  our  mind  oft  takes 
Which  may  account  for  our  mistakes, 
Our  sluggishness  or  too  great  haste, 
Our  lack  of  judgment  or  of  taste. 

Faults  of  our  forefathers  innate. 
Defects  of  very  ancient  date. 

Harking  to  days  before  our  birth. 

And  now  the  cause  of  blame  and  mirth. 


[148] 


The  Prodigal 

‘After  a youth  of  dissipation 
Attend  in  age  to  your  salvation. 

What  matters  a bit  of  youthful  sin? 
Return,  you  may  be  taken  in.’ 

’Tis  well  the  Prodigal  should  roam 
And  well  that  sons  should  stay  at  home ; 
They  learn  to  care  for  fatted  calves 
And  with  the  Prodigal  go  halves, 

While  he,  just  when  he  should  return 
To  eat  the  food  he  did  not  earn. 

Now  in  this  story  we  should  see 

Not  the  gross  partiality 

But,  from  strict  Justice  quite  apart. 

The  higher  Justice  of  the  Heart. 


[149] 


Fame 


Fame  is  the  fleeting  breath  of  men, 
Themselves  as  fleeting  as  their  breath — 
Motes  on  the  edge  of  Life’s  great  wheel 
Ever  revolving  down  to  Death. 

How  hard  they  strive,  each  little  mote. 
To  leave  some  word  that  men  may  quote. 
If  they  succeed  ’tis  heard  a day; 

Then  quoted  and  quoter  pass  away. 

But  not  so  fast — ^for  it  is  plain 
Eternal  Striving  doth  remain 
And  may  be  found  when  all  is  done. 

The  very  essence  of  the  fun. 


(May,  1920.) 


[150] 


Superstition 

How  Superstition  still  holds  sway 
Is  shown  in  Stratford  every  day 
Where  certain  doggerel-guarded  stones 
Hold  undisturbed  the  poet’s  bones. 

Indeed  we  think  ’twill  be  the  worse 

For  that  sacrilegious  wight 

Who  dares  face  that  rustic  curse 

And  bring  great  Shakespeare’s  skull  to  light, 

And  show  what  once  was  packed  with  wit 

Lying  dull  and  void  of  it. 

All  long  to  see — but  stop  at  that. 

Bold  must  he  be,  who  bells  that  cat. 


(June,  1920.) 


[151] 


In  Old  Books 

Thoughts  sincere  lie  buried  here  covered  with  dust, 
And  must  like  dust  all  disappear; 

Could  they  in  tenuous  threads  span  the  abyss  of  Time 
And  call  up  an  answering  echo  in  some  heart 
As  yet  unborn — ’twould  be  sublime. 


Some  page  you’ll  find  so  thumb-marked,  dirty,  soiled. 
You’d  think  the  book  containing  it  quite  spoiled. 
Until  you  come  across  some  verse  thereon 
When  suddenly  behold!  the  squalor’s  gone. 

As  firefly  grovelling  on  the  dingy  ground 
That  bright  thought  shining  in  the  dirt  is  found. 


[152] 


The  Bookworm 

One  is  appalled — 

At  volumes  stalled  in  libraries, 

Where  the  bookworm  works  at  ease 
On  Lover’s  vows,  and  sighs  and  tears. 
Turning  all  to  dust  in  a few  years. 

One  is  amazed — 

At  things  well  phrased,  lying  unacted 
In  volumes  of  forgotten  plays; 

And  astonished — 

That  people  so  well  admonished 
By  endless  sermons,  should  still  sin; 
Sermons — dusty  without  and  dry  within. 

One  must  be  mad — 

To  think  that  writings  sad 
Can  please — ^yet  I don’t  know. 
Remembering  Poe. 

One  must  be  chary — 

In  judging  things  unliterary, 

Nor  think  works  too  gay  or  at  their  ease 
Cannot  become  ‘the  go’  and  please. 

Meanwhile  the  moving  finger  writes, 
Then  disappears. 

Together  with  the  writing,  the  writer. 
And  all  his  hopes  and  fears. 


[153] 


Books 


’Gainst  Books,  Time  tries  his  tooth  in  vain, 
The  pen  exploits  the  busy  brain. 

And  Books  in  spite  of  Time  and  Chance 
Like  Cadmus’  famous  teeth  enhance. 

Or  fabled  Phoenix  rise  again 
TiU  fearful  in  the  eyes  of  men 
Becomes  the  peril  of  the  ‘Pen.’ 


[154] 


BOOKS 


Dreams 

In  dreams  we  never  dream  we’re  old, 
The  dreams  of  age  again  unfold 
Visions  of  youth — we’re  never  old. 
With  dainty  Ariel  we’ll  go 
When  set  free  by  Prospero 
‘After  summer  merrily.’ 

In  a new  world,  under  a sky 
Seen  only  by  the  poet’s  eye, 

For  strange  things  and  stranger  still 
Did  we  but  know  it  wait  on  will ; 
Nothing’s  impossible  to  man. 
Therefore  quit  speckled  Caliban 
And  no  longer  moaning  dwell 
Under  Prospero’s  stem  spell. 


[156] 


The  Beard 

Many  a man  has  grown  a beard 
Snow  white  as  pure  unprinted  pages 
On  which  the  printing-press  o£  Time 
Makes  no  impression  as  he  ages. 

The  monkish  hood  makes  not  the  Monk 
Nor  can  advancing  age  make  Sages, 
Snow  covers  the  volcanic  peaks 
While  just  below  the  fire  still  rages. 

At  this  Saint  Peter  nods  his  head. 
‘Among  the  called  the  cool  are  chosen. 
The  make  up  of  a Saint,’  he  said, 

‘Is  but  a Sinner  nearly  frozen.’ 


[157] 


The  Eagle 


The  eagle  seeks  the  highest  peaks, 
Would  he  from  thence  the  world  survey? 
Not  in  the  least — he’s  but  a beast 
That  hunger-driven  seeks  his  prey. 

But  do  we  know  if  this  be  so? 

For  something  more  he  surely  feels 
As  circling  high  against  the  sky 
Slowly  the  earth  beneath  him  reels. 

It  hath  been  said  that  Nature  seems 
Quite  blind  to  her  own  majesty, 

That  human  eyes  alone  enjoy 
Her  beauty  and  sublimity. 

May  not  the  eagle’s  keener  eye 
Share  with  man  this  ecstasy? 


[158] 


His  Vocation 


A Hermit  stood  at  Heaven’s  gate, 

He  entered  not  but  hesitated: 

‘This  slothful  scene  of  constant  praise 
Is  what  I never  contemplated!’ 

Fight  has  been  my  food  and  drink, 
Fighting  Devils,  and  my  delight 
Is  hounding  them  to  Hell’s  hot  brink 
Where  howling  they  plunge  out  of  sight. 

Lost  in  this  press  of  Saints  I’d  be 
Sadly  missing  my  vocation. 

How,  or  with  whom,  put  up  a fight 
Without  a scrap  of  provocation? 

Soft  has  become  my  flinty  bed. 

Sweet,  my  austere  solitude ; 

Unregretted  pleasures  fled. 

Unshared,  my  great  beatitude. 

Back  to  my  Devils  and  their  din. 

One  prayer  I will  sincerely  raise — 

0 Lord ! forgive  my  only  sin : 

1 cannot  sing  eternal  praise. 


(Rome,  May  23,  1920.) 


[159] 


Smithereens 


As  I review  life  page  by  page, 

I’ve  found  in  age — not  in  my  teens — 
Things  have  been  smashed  to  smithereens. 
My  thirst  for  rest  and  restful  ease, 

It  seems  I never  can  appease. 

The  domes  I’ve  reared  with  that  intent 
Have  all  to  smithereens  been  sent. 

Till  now  in  age  I seem  to  lean 
On  fragments  of  smashed  smithereens. 

Thank  God!  one  dome  remains  intact. 

That  of  Friendship,  which  in  fact 
In  spite  of  age  yet  brightly  gleams 
Mid  fragments  of  smashed  smithereens. 


[160] 


Two  Fair  Philosophies 


There  are  two  fair  Philosophies, 

The  one,  too  cheerful  is  and  jolly; 

The  other  bears  with  her  a skull 
And  is  inclined  to  melancholy; 

The  first  frequents  the  flowery  meads 
And  there  continuously  romps. 

The  second,  the  sad  church-yard  needs 
For  she  enjoys  funereal  pomps. 

In  fact  she  mourns  enough  for  two— 
Her  own,  and  someone  else’s  sin. 
While  number  one,  so  full  of  fun, 
Wears  one  long  optimistic  grin. 

Could  I but  find  the  two  combined, 

The  first  with  optimistic  grin  off. 

The  second  somewhat  more  inclined 
To  leave  her  pessimistic  air  off. 

The  fair  result  I’d  gladly  wed 
And  take  her  to  my  board  and  bed. 


[161] 


The  Bended  Bow 


We  hear  the  ring  of  the  bended  bow, 
When  the  arrow  sharp  hath  fled, 
Only  after  do  we  know. 

How  some  stricken  creature  bled. 

Often  rings  the  careless  laughter 
When  some  cruel  word  hath  sped. 
And  we  only  know  long  after 
How  some  tender  heart  hath  bled. 


[162] 


Words 


Our  words  indeed  may  greatly  vary 
With  a rich  vocabulary, 

But  some  essential  are  as  breath, 

Such  Life,  and  Birth,  and  Love,  and  Death. 
With  these  four  strings  on  which  we  play 
Begins  and  ends  our  short-lived  lay. 


[163] 


The  Absent  Cure 


‘I  leave  the  harbor  far  astern, 

And  face  the  open  sea, 

And  yet  I can  but  sadly  turn 
And  fondly  think  of  Thee/ 

Thus  did  the  Lover  sob  and  sigh 
And  think  his  life  was  blasted ; 

Lord  knows  that  life  was  sweet  enough 
While  that  flirtation  lasted. 

He  calls  his  Love  a distant  star. 

And  cold — but  much  I fear 
That  others  find  her  warm  enough, 

I mean  those  others  near. 

Now  let  him  go  to  gay  ‘Paree’ 

And  cease  on  her  to  think. 

And  if  he’s  wise  economise 
His  paper,  pen,  and  ink. 


[164] 


Intensity 


I’m  lacking  in  Intensity, 

Death — to  obtain  a single  kiss 
May  be  excruciating  bliss 
And  doubtless  is  in  poetry, 

But  were  it  left  for  me  to  say, 

Rather  than  Death — Satiety. 

For  when  the  hissing’s  once  begun 
Do  we  see  lovers  stop  at  one? 

Real  lovers  have  more  common  sense. 
And,  considering  the  price. 
Although  one  kiss  is  very  nice 
They  leave  that  one  to  the  ‘Intense.’ 


[165] 


Songs  of  Indigestion 

If  this  life  is  made  up  of  complications, 

The  next  one  must  be  passed  in  explanations; 
Perhaps  Death  cuts  for  us  the  Gordian  Knot 
And  turns  ‘what  might  be’  into  ‘what  is  not.’ 

This  life  is  but  a kind  of  troubled  bliss, 

Mixed  with  a somewhat  mitigated  pain; 

Our  happiest  times  are  naught  but  pleasant  dreams. 
And  even  these  we  cannot  dream  again. 

A pretty  scheme  indeed — a pretty  business 
Not  filled  with  ought-to-be-ness. 

But  downright  is-ness. 

Nothing  obtained  without  a strenuous  fight. 

Where  many  may  be  wrong  to  make  one  right. 


[166] 


The  Nude 


Art,  to  puritanic  minds 

Is,  as  it  were,  the  entering  wedge. 

Or  the  first  glass,  or  the  first  step 
Leading  to  the  broken  pledge. 

They  somewhat  doubt  this  tendency 
(In  a clothed  age)  towards  Nudity. 

All  would  be  well  were  we  but  sure 
That  Art  could  keep  the  Nude  quite  pure; 
But  there’s  the  rub,  for  who  can  say 
So  much  depends  upon  the  way? 

‘To  the  pure  all  things  are  pure.’ 

Again  the  rub,  we’re  not  quite  sure. 


[167] 


Two  Pictures  of  Snow 


We  felt  it  in  the  air,  and  lo!  ’twas  there; 

And  childish  faces  turn  from  the  ruddy  glow 
And  gaze  into  the  speckled  darkness  of  the  night 
At  the  white  multitude  hurrying  softly  down, 
Covering  all  below  with  soft  silent  snow. 

And  then  their  rest  they  take  and  dream  of  mom, 
When  they  shall  wake  to  the  marvel  of  that  sight — 
A fair  new  world,  clad  in  spotless  white. 


How  sick  I get  of  snow  each  year. 

But  it  costs  dear.  When  I am  home  again 
And  snow  turns  to  rain  and  by  frost  is  set, 
Or  begins  to  melt — how  sick  I get 
Of  snow,  and  the  constant  mackintosh 
And  the  lost  galosh — forever  lost — 

In  slushy,  influenza-breeding  snow. 


[168] 


Mother  Shipton’s  still  alive 

And  by  her  guesses  seems  to  thrive, 

By  her  guesses  right  or  wrong 
Mother  Shipton  gets  along. 

Men  guesses  right  hail  with  delight, 

But  guesses  wrong  forget  outright; 

Truth  is  the  guess,  the  best  guess  guessed 
But  fails  to  guess  which  guess  is  best. 

Her  prophecy — 

‘God  and  Satan,  Man  between 
Was  and  is  and  will  be  seen. 

And  of  this  truth  we  may  be  sure 
While  Man’s  alive  and  worlds  endure. 
And  wars  will  see,  and  misery. 

And  famine,  pest,  and  poverty.’ 


Here  Mother  Shipton  ends  her  song. 
If  she  be  right  she  can’t  be  wrong. 


Folly  Enthroned 

Once  in  superb  Byzantium 
There  wandered  a demented  maid, 

On  rude  pandian  pipes  she  played — 
Her  only  speech — for  she  was  dumb. 

Such  in  the  east  they  hold  inspired, 

So  when  she  mounts  the  Sultan’s  throne 
And  wildly  plays  or  makes  her  moan. 
Into  the  omen  they  inquired. 

They  found  no  greater  prophecy 
Or  better  emblem  can  be  shown 
Of  a nation’s  quick  decay 
Than  Folly  seated  on  a throne. 


[170] 


FOLLY  ENTHRONED 


A Protest 


I know  that  good  things  can  be  turned  from  their  uses 
Into  fearful  abuses,  as  well  as  the  rest, 

But  between  prohibitions  and  people  with  missions 
I hope  Moderation  will  turn  out  the  best. 

I know  that  our  ancestors  fought  for  their  freedom, 
But  I cannot  believe  that  our  backbone  is  such 
That  it  bends  to  the  sway  of  a pack  of  reformers 
Who  themselves  cannot  tell  ‘just  enough’  from  ‘too 
much.’ 


[172] 


Beer  and  Belly 

No  doubt  that  good  beer  was  designed  for  the  belly, 
No  doubt  that  the  belly  enjoys  the  good  beer, 

As  it  does  the  welsh-rabbit  when  found  hot  and  handy 
Add  to  these  the  good  friend  with  his  smile  and  his 
tear. 

No  doubt  that  some  saints  while  disliking  this  picture 
Will  promise  instead  lovely  robes  white  as  snow, 
And  places  on  pinnacles  lofty  ascending. 

But  I prefer  standing  by  these  good  things  below. 

‘Dear  me,’  cries  the  saint,  ‘how  you  cling  to  your 
body! 

But  what  will  you  do  when  from  hence  you  must  go?’ 
Why,  I’ll  hunt  up  old  friends  and  grow  a new  belly. 
But  I doubt  if  much  better  than  the  one  left  below. 


[173] 


John  Beats  Thomas 

One  thing  in  Nature  another  eats, 
And  by  another  thing  is  eaten: 

In  Grammer — it  is  John  who  beats 
And  Thomas  who  is  always  beaten. 

In  this  see  that  ‘Mysterious  way’ 
About  which  we  must  nothing  say 
Or  reason,  lest  we  be  accused 
Of  what  is  called — Impiety. 

But  we  may  say  that  Crammer’s  way 
Shows  a strange  partiality 
Unknown  to  Nature — who  we  see 
Beats  John  and  Thomas  equally. 

So  when  we  learn  that  fire  will  bum 
From  fire  we  try  to  keep  away. 

Also  from  that  ‘Mysterious  way’ 
Which  shows  no  such  partiality. 

Can  such  discordant  notes  unite 
And  form  an  unheard  harmony? 
Which  only  gifted  ears  can  hear — 
Vibrations  of  the  ‘Mystery.’ 


/^CS5 


[174] 


Quaint  Questions 

Philosophers  of  lofty  brow 
Seem  very  anxious  for  to  know 
From  whence  we  come  and  where  we  go — 
Before  they  know  what  we  are  now. 

If  they  find  Men  are  now  but  Fools 
According  to  great  Nature’s  rules 
Most  surely  fools  they  must  become, 

At  least  this  can  be  said  of  some. 

Do  wild-cats  ever  change  their  habits 
And  become  as  mild  as  rabbits? 

Lengthen  their  ears  and  drop  their  claws 
Following  Nature’s  unknown  laws? 

Curates  are  mild,  are  Bishops  so? 

Yet  Bishops  out  of  Curates  grow. 

Doth  Nature  show  us  here  two  rules, 

One  for  the  Wise  and  one  for  Fools? 

We  oft  see  Fools  of  lofty  brow, 

We  ask  not  how  they  come  and  go, 

We  only  know  we  have  them  now. 

Some  things  we  guess  at — Fools  we  know. 


[175] 


The  Praying  Mantis 

Does  the  Mantis  really  pray? 

Her  hcinds  uplifted  to  the  sky, 

Or  is  it  her  little  comedy, 

We  know  she  really  means  to  slay. 

Believing  in  this  pious  show 
Her  lovers  fond  around  her  crowd. 

But  she  omitting  heads  and  legs. 
Becomes  for  them  a bright  green  shroud. 

Where,  in  her  body  fair,  they  lie 
Forming  a happy  family 
Which  self-supporting  as  you  see 
Seems  the  reward  of  piety. 

So  trust  not  Nature  when  she’s  bland. 

Not  always  under  gloomy  skies. 

Oft  where  bright  sunshine  floods  the  land 
The  earthquake’s  densest  danger  lies. 


Note: — The  Mantis,  it  is  said,  after  a short  period  of  dalliance, 
devours  all  her  lovers,  wisely  omitting  heads  and  legs  as  Indigestible, 
— see  Natural  History. 

We  know  she  eats  them  on3  by  one. 

Is  it  from  hunger  or  in  fun? 


[176] 


Naughty  Spirits 

While  waiting  on  the  gloomy  shore 
For  old  Charon  and  his  skiff, 

I noticed  many  spirits  swore 
With  a But,  or  with  an  If — 

‘Damn  it,  but  I didn’t  think; 

Damn  it,  if  I’d  only  thought; 

I wish  his  damned  old  boat  would  sink’ 
Or,  ‘If  an  obolus  I’d  brought.’ 

So  these  light  wights  in  debt  get  in 
The  heavier  for  this  added  sin. 

While  Charon  toting  them  across 
Muttered  sadly — ‘Profit  and  loss.’ 


[177] 


The  flowery  bells  of  breezy  Spring 
Set  Lover’s  hearts  and  voices  ringing, 
’Tis  but  the  lusty  voice  of  May, 
Singing  while  she  is  sowing. 

That  sets  these  pretty  things  agoing. 

Lovesickness  mostly  soon  is  cured. 

At  least  its  pains  can  be  endured. 

They  are  the  growing  pains  of  Spring 
And  not  at  all  a serious  thing. 

’Twas  ever  thus  in  spring. 

Among  the  good  there’s  someone  bad. 
Among  the  jolly — someone  sad. 

So  in  the  spring  while  all  things  sing 
One  sadly  goes  a-sorrowing. 

And  so  it  was  with  this  poor  Faun, 
Sitting  grumpy  all  alone 
His  merry  pipes  abandoning. 

He’d  sought  the  forest’s  deepest  shade 
To  mourn  a wayward  fickle  Maid, 

Till  he  no  longer  silent  stayed. 

But  doleful  lamentations  made. 
Remembering  his  philandering. 


[178] 


I said — ‘Why  mourn  that  fickle  Maid 
And  lamentations  sing? 

Thou  knowest  well,  as  well  I know, 

’Tis  ever  thus  in  spring.  Another  spring, 
Another  Maid,  as  sweet  as  May  will  bring. 

‘In  sunny  glades  with  such-like  Maids 
You’ll  while  away  the  spring; 

Until  she  leaves  you  like  the  rest 
And  then  again  you’ll  sing. 

As  you  have  often  sung  before, 

“ ’Twas  ever  thus  in  Spring.” 

‘Out  of  the  darkness  of  the  night 
Perchance  some  owl  may  mock  your  plight. 
And  echoing  your  sighs  may  sing, 

“With  you — ’twas  ever  thus  in  spring,” 

Till  Echo’s  voice  diminishing 

Says  faintly — “Ever  thus  in  in  spring,” 

Reiterating — “Thus  in  spring,” 

And  finishing — “In  spring.’” 


Note: — This  was  the  original  as  written  by  E.  V.,  not  the  version 
printed  in  “Moods.” 


[179] 


The  Dreaming  Mountain 

Great  Nature,  dreaming,  thinks  in  her  deep  way. 
For  through  her  massive  portals  we  catch  gleams 
Of  her  mysterious  thoughts  and  mighty  dreams; 
Yet  seems  she  strangely  blind  to  her  own  majesty. 
Is  it  for  us  to  see,  or  hath  she  seen 
That  Man  up  through  these  portals  will  some  day 
His  own  creative,  emulous  imagery  display? 


Pride 

With  body  insignificant 
In  mind  Man  ranges  near  and  far. 
From  blade  of  grass  to  distant  star 
In  Will  all  but  omnipotent. 


[180] 


THE  DREAMING  MOUNTAIN 


Mirth’s  Music 


Man  in  life’s  labyrinth  strange  music  hears 
Of  labor,  in  the  drone  of  Egypt’s  groaning  wheels, 
Of  pleasure,  in  those  soft  voluptuous  reels 
Danced  near  the  Danube’s  ever  flowing  tide. 

Sometimes  it  flutters  down  from  out  the  sky. 

Then  ’tis  the  happy  Lark’s  mad  minstrelsy. 

Or  rising  nearer  earth  with  silvery  notes 
The  unseen  Tree-toad’s  trilling  symphony. 

But  come,  fair  Goddess  Mirth!  and  bring  today 
Thy  music — and  with  me  let  it  abide ; 

Murmur  of  loved  voices  gone,  or  far  away. 

Mayhap  faint  laughter  from  dark  Lethe’s  side. 

Enough  the  sermons  and  the  sorrows  are! 

Enough  the  noise  of  Life  and  its  stem  jar ! 

So  come.  Thou  dimpled  Goddess,  stay  with  me. 

Or  if  Thou  needs  must  go — then  let  me  go  with  Thee. 


[182] 


To  Holland 


Holland,  thou  wast  not  bom  of  Doubt, 
Doubt  never  checked  the  wild  North  Sea, 
Nor  did  it  drive  away  that  blight. 

The  blight  of  Spanish  bigotry. 

A dogged  Faith  in  Man  himself. 

And  not  in  mouldering  bones  of  Saints, 

Is  why  the  blessed  Sun  now  paints 
With  Hope’s  bright  green  thy  meadows  free. 

Faith  in  thy  strength.  Faith  in  thy  right. 
Drove  back  the  sea,  drove  back  the  blight; 
And  now,  o’er  fields  restored  to  light. 
Blows  the  sane  breath  of  Liberty. 


[183] 


I build  my  house  upon  a rock, 

A rock  that  rests  on  sand; 

The  sand  rests  on  another  rock 
And  so  throughout  the  land. 

The  land  an  island  in  the  sea, 

In  both  too  much  uncertainty. 

So  now  I build  my  house  on  air. 

Mere  Fancy  rears  a golden  dome. 
Will  it  hereafter  be  my  home? 

I look  on  clouds  and  see  it  there. 

Some  wandering  wind  may  find  a key 
And  show  what  I alone  can  see 
Ere  with  the  clouds  it  drifts  away. 
Yet  how  I long  to  have  it  stay. 


[184] 


Good  Advice 


To  all  ye  men  advanced  in  years 
Who  having  ears,  yet  hear, 

I’ll  tell  you  of  a little  plan 
To  free  your  minds  from  fear. 

Buy  quickly  a small  Annuity 
And  live  ■without  anxiety. 

Thus  while  you  live 

You  still  can  give 

But  dying  naught  can  leave; 

So  all  will  wish  you  long  may  stay 
And  when  you  really  go  away 
Over  your  grave  will  grieve. 


I 


[185] 


The  Optimist  asserts  that  Life 
Is  like  a Persian  rug  unrolled, 

Where  all  the  rainbow  hues  he  sees 
Are  lovely  flowers  picked  out  in  gold. 

The  Pessimist  in  Life  beholds 
A poor  rag-carpet  Fate  unfolds 
Worn  and  soiled  by  the  constant  tread 
Of  those  who  sadly  earn  their  bread. 

Truth  finds  the  vaunted  Persian  rug 
Is  a mere  modem  imitation, 

And  the  rag-carpet  not  so  bad. 
Needing  a little  reparation. 


(April  21,  1915.) 


[186] 


Venus 


Venus!  get  Thee  gone! 

With  all  thy  loves  and  doves. 

Why  come  gliding  over  the  purple  sea 
On  thy  dainty  shell 
Letting  thy  warm  glances  dwell 
Again  on  me? 

I who  have  been  so  well 
With  only  memory. 

Would’st  light  again  the  fires 
Of  my  desires? 

On  the  altar  where  they  as  ashes  lie? 
Go— saucy  hussy,  get  Thee  gone! 

Over  the  shining  water 
To  thy  native  sky. 


[187] 


Smaller  by  Degrees  and 
Beautifully  Less 

With  the  first  blast  from  out  Life’s  stormy  sky, 
Youth’s  fairy  fabric  shattered  at  his  feet  doth  lie, 

But  Youth  and  Hope  together  mend  the  damage  done. 
And  soon  another  lordly  palace  greets  the  sun. 

That  too  and  others  just  as  fast  go  down 
Before  adversity  and  the  world’s  frown. 

Grown  wiser,  he  builds  smaller  by  degrees 
Until  he’s  happy  in  a hut  to  take  his  ease. 

Resigned  to  reap  the  harvest  he  has  sown. 

Contented  with  a roof  that  he  can  call  his  own. 


[188] 


Bubbles  and  Baubles 


Verse-making  is  a bad  disease, 

A little  printing  gives  it  ease, 

Success  indeed  might  work  a cure 
But  of  success  no  one  is  sure. 

Make,  if  you  can,  but  one  good  rhyme 
That  will  resist  the  tooth  of  Time, 

Or  like  a bubble  lightly  ride 
Sparkling  on  Time’s  restless  tide. 

Baubles  and  bubbles — crowned,  uncrowned. 
Count  as  one  in  lives  renowned; 

Where  oft  a monarch’s  silly  jest 
Of  all  his  deeds  remains  the  best. 


(N.B. — See  Charles  the  First.) 


[189] 


The  Outline 


Show  me  the  man  to  vice  inclined 
Who  yet  resists  with  steadfast  mind, 
And  I’ll  show  you  a Saint  designed 
By  Nature,  or  at  least  outlined. 

Perhaps  this  may  be  Nature’s  way 
She  gives  the  outline  or  outlay 
Which  we  fill  up  as  best  we  may. 
How  then  on  Exhibition-day? 

When  we  our  masterpiece  display. 
Sign  we  the  work  our  own  creation 
Or  meekly  state  ‘Collaboration.* 


[190] 


Miracles 


At  Miracles  be  not  dismayed, 

Of  Jonah’s  whale  be  not  afraid, 

The  miracles  of  flower  and  fly 

Are  greater — and  that  they  should  die 

Made  and  remade,  unceasingly. 

Strange  it  may  seem,  but  we  find  out 
That  Miracle  is  bom  of  Doubt. 

For  given  Mind  and  Mystery 
At  once  the  birth  of  Doubt  we  see. 

Or  if  playfully  inclined 
Imagine  Mystery  minus  Mind — 

Or  turn  it  the  other  way  about. 

And  fancy  Miracle  less  Doubt. 


[191] 


The  Advent  of  Man 


At  first  the  Elements  beheld  with  glee 
That  upright  cub  we  now  call  Man, 

But  when  they  saw  within  his  grasp  the  glint 
Of  a rude  axe,  fashioned  of  splintered  flint. 
Throughout  their  ranks  a mighty  shudder  ran. 
And  now  they  see  him  strike  the  bird  in  flight. 
Drag  out  the  scaly  monsters  of  the  sea. 
Warm  himself  and  brood  by  self-made  fire 
And  light  his  gloomy  cave’s  obscurity; 

From  whence  bom  on  the  air 
Strange  sounds  they  hear 
Of  throbbing,  diabolic  revelry; 

Thus  seeing  Man  rise  from  the  sod,  they  fear 
The  advent  of  a Devil  or  a God  is  near. 


[192] 


The  Pessimistic  Maze 


Fancy  its  circlings—canyons  great 
Where  light  can  scarcely  penetrate, 

Its  lofty  walls  o’erwrit  with  lies 
Or  Nature’s  mysterious  verities. 

The  center  vast,  dense  silence  fills 
Or  at  the  best  vague  whisperings; 

No  certainty  has  yet  been  found 
But  Death  to  end  the  weary  round. 

What  scheme  imagine?  What  devise 
To  find  your  way  amid  these  lies? 

You  wander  by  a dubious  light 
While  all  about  reigns  hopeless  night. 

How  came  you  there,  you  do  not  know ; 
Nor  whence,  nor  where,  nor  why,  you  go. 


[194] 


The  Slot 


Death’s  like  the  penny  in  the  slot, 
Something  we  get — we  know  not  what, 
Nor  do  we  care  so  much  to  know 
That  into  that  slot  we  care  to  go. 

Now  you  may  think  this  fun  misplaced. 
Yet  surely  funny  it  would  be 
Finding  a game  we  held  as  chance 
Was  betting  against  certainty. 

What  if  the  bitter  tear  we  mop 
Or  spend  life  in  frivolity? 

Great  Nature  comes  not  to  a stop 
Nor  stops  her  old  fecundity. 

She  says — ‘Increase  and  multiply. 

What  if  I give  the  weeping  eye? 

I give  the  cure,  the  remedy, 

In  careless  gay  hilarity.’ 

One  of  her  lies.  Can  this  be  told 
To  those  who  barely  taste  of  life. 

Or  early  perish  in  the  strife 
Before  Life’s  glory  they  behold? 

For  you  this  moral  is  enough: 

Cast  not  Life’s  penny  in  the  slot 
In  hopes  of  getting  God  knows  what — 
Yet  don’t  put  up  too  big  a bluff. 


[195] 


The  Boomerang 

Many  on  the  woolsack  sit 
As  Judges  who  are  most  unfit. 

‘Judge  not  lest  you  be  judged/  a rule 
Among  the  best  that  we  have  found, 

A boomerang  that  circling  round 
Finds  out  the  spot  where  weVe  unsound, 
Or,  quoting  Johnson,  we  should  say: 
‘Unsound  fundamentally.' 


[196] 


Culture 


Culture  may  make  the  cabbage  grow 
Till  fit  for  horticultural  show, 

But  it  remains  a cabbage  still. 

That  is  culture’s  bitter  pill, 

That  cabbage  still. 

But  no.  But  no.  Science  now  cries : 
Take  with  the  cabbage  proper  pains. 
You  yet  may  make  a head  with  brains. 
Of  course  no  brain  will  live  to  see  it. 
But  we’ll  try  it. 


[197] 


Too  True 


Mid  all  the  longings  of  the  heart 
The  Future  forms  the  brightest  part. 
How  will  it  be  with  us  at  last 
With  all  our  Future  in  the  Past? 

Ah!  Youth,  this  is  not  so  with  you; 

In  Age  alas ! ’tis  but  too  true. 


[198] 


Hell 


We’ve  changed  the  name,  the  thing’s  the  same, 
In  hopes  it  may  take  off  the  curse; 

We  suffer  now  a Mental  flame — 

Not  Physical — which  is  the  worst? 


[199] 


The  How  and  Why 

Things  ask  no  questions  in  this  wondrous  world, 
Silently  the  golden  sunsets  are  unfurled 
And  tinged  the  drops  in  Hope’s  prismatic  bow, 
And  so,  Man  only  of  all  things  below, 

(Unlike  the  honest  plants  and  flowers) 

Passes  his  hours,  scanning  earth  and  sky. 
Eternally  asking  the  How  and  Why? 


(1919.) 


(A  quotation  from  Maurice  Hewlett.) 

“There  are  at  least  two  persons  in  each  of  us,  one  at  least  of  which 
can  course  the  starry  spaces,  and  inhabit  where  the  other  could 
scarcely  breathe  for  ten  minutes.” 


(Montaigne — see  Florio’s  translation  and  spelling — not  mine!) 

“If  as  some  say,  to  philosophate  is  to  doubt,  with  much  more  reason 
to  rare  and  to  fantastiquise,  as  I do  must  necessaraly  be  to  doubt;  for 
to  inquire  and  to  debate  belongeth  to  a scholler,  and  to  resolve  apper- 
taineth  to  a cathedrall  master.” 


[200] 


Philosophers 

We  picture  them  as  wise  old  men 
Far  past  youth  and  its  temptations, 

A wand  in  hand,  a little  sand 
Whereon  to  trace  their  demonstrations. 
Seated  on  well-carved  marble  benches 
Too  cool  for  thin-clad  classic  wenches. 

There  under  academic  trees 
They  pour  forth  wisdom  at  their  ease 
In  various  forms  of  eloquence 
But  always  to  an  audience. 

This  wisdom’s  only  for  the  wise. 

One  sage  another  verifies. 

That  is  approves,  quotes,  or  denies. 

Of  course  we  read  them  once  or  twice 
But  do  not  follow  their  advice 
Nor  really  profit  by  their  lore. 

We  simply  sit  and  read  some  more. 

Are  we  then  given  to  understand 
That  wisdom  must  be  second-hand? 
When  Science  teaches  us  each  day 
That  Truth  lies  just  the  other  way? 


[201] 


Don’t  Call  Me  Mister, 
Call  Me  George 


Sweet  mistress  mine,  ’tis  May,  let’s  go  a-maying. 
Thy  glorious  hair  like  Eve  unbind 
As  through  the  garden  we  go  straying. 

And  bring  with  Thee  a merry  breeze 
To  set  the  trees  and  rushes  singing. 

But  as  we  rove  in  silent  grove 

And  I with  pleading  sigh  begin  a-wooing. 

Mention  not  age,  nor  call  me  thy  dear  sage. 

For  that  of  all  my  fun  would  be  the  undoing. 


[202] 


Illusions 


Ah!  the  wild  music  and  the  dizzy  whirl, 

And  the  timed  footsteps  on  the  level  floor, 
And  two  hearts  beating,  and  glances  meeting. 
And  tresses  entangling  ever  more; 

Could  such  things  last  forever? 

Alas!  they  passed  forever 
Like  those  light  footsteps 
On  that  dusty  floor. 

If  such  things  but  illusions  be, 

Haste  and  make  an  end  of  me. 

For  they’re  more  precious  in  my  eyes 
Than  ‘skinny  Saints  in  paradise.’ 

So  sang  a singer  long  ago, 

But  we  have  changed  all  that,  you  know. 

Now,  we  shall  have  just  what  we  please 
According  to  modern  theories. 


[203] 


A Chinese  Picture 


Rising  from  a sapphire  sea 
An  emerald  island  I espy, 

Where  dreaming  in  a turquoise  sky 
Pearly  clouds  stretch  lazily, 

While  beneath  a golden  tree, 

A little  deer  for  company. 

An  old  Sage  sits  in  revery. 

No  changes  mar  this  peaceful  scene 
Unvarying  from  year  to  year. 

Its  emerald  grass  is  always  green 
And  on  it  lies  the  dappled  deer. 

The  pearly  clouds  dream  o’er  the  sea 
While  deep  in  thought  beneath  the  tree 
The  Sage  remains  in  revery. 

Where  lies  the  charm?  In  changeless  sky? 
Or  breathes  it  from  the  sapphire  sea? 

Or  is  it  the  little  dappled  deer 
That  keeps  the  old  man  company? 

Whate’er  it  is,  its  tranquil  peace 
Pervades  my  heart  and  troubles  cease. 


[204] 


A CHINESE  PICTURE 


Compensations 

No  need  to  cheer  up  the  rosy-gilled  Optimist 
Who  swears  he  is  happy  as  happy  can  be, 

But  rather  encourage  the  grumpy  old  Pessimist 
And  lavish  on  him  all  your  spare  sympathy. 

But  we  must  confess  twixt  ourselves  and  the  lamp- 
post 

That  Rosy-gill’s  not  so  infernally  gay, 

And  that  grumpy  old  P.,  while  wrapped  up  in  his 
sorrow. 

Gets  a great  deal  of  comfort  in  his  pensive  way. 

Whence  we  conclude  that  there  are  compensations 
Which  make  of  the  Sad  and  the  Gay  but  a pair, 

And  that  in  the  course  of  the  earth’s  revolutions 
Things,  after  all,  pan  out  pretty  fair. 


(June,  1920) 


Humbug 

How  often  have  I tried  to  lug 
Into  my  verse  the  word  Humbug, 

And  also  hoped  the  thing  to  kill 
But  as  in  verse,  I lack  the  skill. 

Unlike  Hydra,  one  vital  head 
In  Humbug  lives  among  the  dead. 

And  sprouts  and  breeds,  we  always  find. 

In  various  forms  after  its  kind. 

Saint  George  the  dragon  is  ever  killing. 

And  in  some  pictures  the  beast  seems  willing 
To  meekly  come  and  take  its  gruel. 

This  on  the  artists’  part  looks  cruel. 

But  Humbug’s  real — give  it  real  pain 
And  make  it  squirm  again  and  again. 


[207] 


Camera  Lucida 
and 

Camera  Obscura 

Did  angels  singing  as  Creation  dawned, 

Know  of  the  thousand  monsters  that  were  spawned? 
Do  two  great  laws  preside  in  Nature’s  scheme: 

One  for  the  things  that  are— one  for  the  things  that 
seem? 

When  angels  sing,  how  is  composed  the  song? 

Is  it  composed  of  two  parts.  Right  and  Wrong? 

Can  laws  of  harmony  unite  these  two? 

Do  discords  count  as  nothing,  are  they  few? 

You  may  not  say  these  questions  are  but  seeming, 
They  form  the  very  tissue  of  Life’s  dreaming. 
Primitive  monsters  of  the  labouring  mind, 

They  wander  in  huge  freedom  unconfined 
Through  the  hushed  watches  of  the  lonesome  night. 
With  gloomy  questionings  our  sad  soul  affright. 

Come,  gentle  Dawn — bring  the  fresh  breath  of  Day, 
Open  the  window — let  in  the  cheerful  light, 

And  drive  these  fearful  monsters  all  away. 


[208] 


Autumn 


Old  Men  say — 

That  happy  days  they  still  find  in  the  autumn, 
When  squirrels  rustle  among  the  leaves, 

That  golden  grain  they  still  find  in  the  furrows 
Left  long  ago  from  the  over-full  sheaves. 

So  they  say. 


Old  Men  say — 

How  sweet  ’twas  to  linger  when  young 
Under  the  peaceful  harvest  moon, 

That  now  the  winters  are  longer  and  colder. 

And  that  they  come  oftener  and  much  too  soon, 
So  they  say. 

Yet  Old  Men  say — 

That  some  of  the  sweetest  though  saddest  colors 
Are  found  in  the  west,  at  close  of  day. 

But  night  coming  on,  and  friends  all  departing. 
They  go  themselves  with  the  twilight  away, 
Alas!  so  they  say. 


Note: — This  was  the  original  as  written  by  E.  V.,  not  the  Tersion 
printed  in  “Moods.” 


[209] 


A Cure  for  Insomnia 

(THE  ARTIST’S) 

Insomnia — child  of  incessant  thought, 
Nursed  in  darkness  by  thy  mother  Care, 

Sad  sister  of  the  dread  Nightmare, 

And  her  infernal  gang  led  by  Remorse 
Followed  by  pale  Despair — 

How  oft  Thou  sittest  by  my  sleepless  couch 
Pointing  to  that  oriental  drug. 

That  lethal  thug  who  promises 
With  Aladdin-dreams  to  free  the  mind 
From  strife — ^yet  tangles 
With  ever  tightening  coils  the  Soul 
To  a dull  semblance  of  Death  in  Life — 

I’ll  draw  Thee— 

And  seeing  what  Thou  art  clearly  portrayed 
Henceforth  regard  thy  horrors  undismayed. 


[210] 


The  Classic 


This  is  a subject  Doubt  would  prove, 

What  Classic  helps  afflicted  Job 
When  with  such  grandeur  he  deplores 
His  many  maladies  and  sores? 

Yet  once  his  indignation  past 
To  his  integrity  holds  fast. 

And  Homer  of  the  bay-crowned  brow, 

Of  course  he  is  a Classic  now. 

But  Doubt  would  know  how  class  him  when 
Crownless  and  blind  he  sang  to  men, 

As  bowing  his  venerable  head 

From  door  to  door  he  begged  his  bread? 

Call  it  but  Classic,  ’tis  enough 
To  purify  the  vilest  stuff. 

So  the  worst  filth  of  Greece  and  Rome 
In  our  best  schools  is  quite  at  home. 


[211] 


Fourth  of  July 
1914 


The  sun  rose  on  our  glorious  Fourth, 
Bringing  a cool  wind  from  the  north 
Crisping  the  tepid  southern  sea 
With  a fresh  sense  of  Liberty. 

Alas!  ’twas  burdened  with  the  knell 
Of  a young  monarch’s  funeral. 

Now  thousands  must  in  mourning  go 
To  prison,  exile,  or  to  death. 

In  compensation  for  the  blow 
That  robbed  one  mortal  of  his  breath. 


[212] 


Fame 


What  is  this  Fame?  ’tis  but  a name 
Bandied  about  the  world  a bit, 

It  must  be  sweet  when  men  deem  meet 
To  risk  their  lives  obtaining  it. 

But  as  for  me,  I’ll  let  it  be 
To  come  or  go  as  it  sees  fit. 

Contented  with  my  little  share 
If  it  with  me  will  bide  a bit. 

And  yet — I want  a little  more, 

I hardly  know  what  it  should  be. 

Perhaps  a smile,  perhaps  a sigh. 

Or  something  to  catch  the  passing  eye 
Writ  on  my  tomb,  that  this  will  say 
‘On  earth  he  lived — ^he  did  not  merely  stay.* 


(Revised  September,  1914.) 


[213] 


Rhyme  and  Reason 

I find  those  verses  are  the  worst 
Where  all  the  rhymes  are  thought  out  first, 
And  limping  Reason  hobbles  in 
To  save  it  from  poetic  sin. 

Some  even  say  that  what  is  meant 
Is  but  the  fruit  of  accident, 

And  they  are  right,  for  half  the  time 
We  often  see  the  tyrant  Rhyme 
Puts  poets  in  this  paltry  plight. 

That,  starting  out  to  say  one  thing. 

The  very  opposite  they  sing. 


[214] 


An  Excuse 


These  lines  treat  not  of  bread  and  butter. 
No  fool  is  sent  home  on  a shutter, 

No  ‘Pippa  passes.’ 

Readers  are  never  made  to  feel 
They  are  but  asses; 

And  painful  mental  vivisection 
May  be  avoided  by  selection. 

Yet  they’re  defective,  that  I own. 

For  which  defects  I make  atone 
By  having  ready  this  retort — 

I’ve  made  them  very,  very  short. 


Those  Days 

With  all  the  Dancers  duly  set, 

We  danced  some  pleading  minuet 
Which  figured  well  the  goings  on 
Of  those  days  and  our  merry  set. 
That  once  so  merry  set. 

But  now  with  pretty  ghosts  alone 
I dance  that  pleading  minuet. 


Could  I But  Know! 

Careless  youth  scattered,  as  if  it  little  mattered 
How,  or  where,  or  when  the  golden  grain  was  sown; 

Had  it  but  known ! 

Closing  the  weary  eyes  gives  the  brain  no  reposing, 
It  sadly  goes  on  reaping  what  it  has  sown. 

Had  it  but  known ! 

Old  Age  again  sowing  but  this  well  knowing. 

It  never  will  gather  the  harvest  it  now  sows. 

Can  only  murmur  to  itself,  meekly  and  low, 

‘Could  I but  know!’ 


[216] 


THOSE  DAYS 


An  Old  Man’s  Song 

Time — for  a moment  hold  thy  glass 
So  that  Life’s  sands  no  longer  pass, 

’Twill  be  great  sport  to  look  them  o’er 
And  then  make  up  the  motley  score, 

A mass  inchoate  as  this  verse. 

And  like  it,  might  have  been  much  worse. 

The  common  sand  of  Sweet  Content  I somehow  miss. 
And  the  rare  pearls  of  Perfect  Bliss; 

The  golden  grain  of  Wealth  is  somewhat  rare 
But  dull  green  grains  of  Discontent  and  Care 

Are  there. 

And  of  sparkling  diamond  grains  of  pleasure 

A good  measure. 

But  ruby  gems  of  Love  and  coral  beads  of  Passion 

I must  count  in. 

Mixed  with  jet  black  specks  of  Sin. 

Yet,  to  be  fair,  some  pure  white  grains 
Of  Truth  and  Honesty  abide,  and  purple  Pride; 

Nor  must  I leave  out  of  the  calculation 

Some  small,  much  broken  particles  of  Reformation. 

Dark  are  the  grains  that  mark  the  death  of  friends. 
But  why  trouble  borrow?  we  go  ourselves  tomorrow. 
Then  comes  a lot  of  dull  disgusting  stuff 
Which  taken  in  the  mass  must  stand  for  Pain, 
Repentance,  carking  Care,  and  Melancholy, 

And  taken  in  the  rough,  are  far  from  jolly. 


[218] 


But  is  it  best  to  calculate  the  rest? 

The  remaining  grains  that  have  as  yet  to  run? 

For  there  is  one  that  soon  or  late  stops  all  the  rest, 
Stops  even  breath — and  that  is — Death. 


CHORUS  OF  OLD  MEN 

Set  up  the  glass,  Old  Time, 

And  while  we  may  we’ll  sing. 

We  now  are  old  and  past  our  prime 
And  all  have  had  our  fling ; 

We  all  have  had  our  fling,  old  friend. 
We  all  have  had  our  fun. 

So  set  up  the  glass  again,  old  Time, 
And  let  the  mixed  sands  run. 

And  let  the  last  sands  run. 


[219] 


A Questioning  Sage 

A questioning  Sage  was  seen  scratching  his  head ; 
The  answer  *tis  plain  was  not  there, 

When  after  a silence  he  suddenly  said, 

T always  think  better  when  lying  in  bed, 

I never  could  think  in  a chair.’ 

So  he  hies  him  to  bed  and  has  a good  nap. 

But  on  waking  as  clear  as  a bell 

The  answer  (which  does  not  amount  to  a rap. 

So  I think)  he  refuses  to  tell. 


[220] 


The  Seven  Sages 

The  Seven  Sages  all  agreed 
They  very  little  knew, 

That  wise  men  were  not  many, 

The  very  wise  but  few. 

And  that  the  very  wisest  said, 

T know  no  more  than  you/ 

This  being  so,  a modern  Sage 
May  stand  among  the  rest. 

Who  says  that  what  he  does  not  know 
Is  what  he  knows  the  best. 

Now  this  is  not  mock  modesty 
For  that  would  never  do. 

And  what  he  thinks  about  himself 
He  also  thinks  of  you. 


[221] 


Aunt  Eveline 


How  dear  to  my  heart 

Are  the  dreams  of  my  childhood, 

But  one  cherished  dearly 

Is  of — Aunt  Eveline, 

Who  from  the  ripe  currant 
Was  want  to  make  yearly 
(By  a miracle  surely) 

What  she  pleased  to  call  wine. 

This  wine  she  oft  proffered 
With  cakes  of  her  baking, 

For  which  it  is  whispered 
She  had  taken  ‘the  bun’ 

And  the  cakes  were  not  wasted 
But  by  me  never  tasted 
Was  what  one  painful  lesson 
Had  taught  me  to  shun ! 


[222] 


Father  William 

What  makes  Father  William 
So  eternally  clever 
Has  never  been  settled, 

And  I doubt  if  it  ever 
Will  be  by  will-power 
No  matter  how  willing, 

Yet  the  secret  he  offers 
To  sell  for  a shilling. 

My  palm  cross  with  silver. 
The  gipsy  premises, 

And  then  you  can  safely 
Stand  by  for  surprises. 

And  prophecies  also 
Which  although  not  true 
And  you  laugh  at  so  slyly 
Yet  believe  in  them  too. 

Between  knaves  and  fools 
This  rule’s  good  enough. 

The  smaller  the  price 
The  poorer  the  stuff. 

The  greater  the  price 
The  bigger  the  bluff. 


[223] 


A New  Year’s  Greeting 

[A.D.  1909] 

Old  Sol  is  out  today,  or  rather  say 
Apollo — and  I would  gaily  sing, 

For  never  have  I felt,  even  in  spring. 

More  springlike  than  I do  today. 

Sign  of  approaching  age?  So  let  it  be — 

With  me  life’s  sun  is  stooping  low 

And  what  remains  of  youth  is  but  the  glow. 

Old  friends  seem  dearer  and  years  no  drearer; 

Of  new  friends  I can  count  a score — and  by  and  by, 
Under  another  sky,  I may  find  more. 

This  song  I sing  for  all  on  New  Year’s  morn, 

Hoping  this  New  Year’s  sun  a glorious  course  may 
run. 

Ending  as  he  began  with  sunny  locks  unshorn. 


[224] 


We  loved,  it  may  be  madly, 

In  far-off  Zanadu, 

And  then  we  parted  sadly 
And  bade  a last  adieu. 

Had  we  then  solved  the  mystery — 
Read  to  the  end  Love’s  history, 

In  far-off  Zanadu? 

It  seems  a perfect  irony 
Fond  love  should  be  but  vanity 
And  passion  end  in  satiety, 

Leaving  but  ruined  pleasure  domes 
In  far-off  Zanadu, 

Even  in  Zanadu! 


[225] 


Herford’s  Fly 

I merely  kill  a tiresome  fly, 

Thine  activity  I transfer 
To  another  sphere — ^mayhap  nearby, 

For  here  Thou  art  too  near  my  nose. 

So  thine  account  I close,  hoping 
For  repose  and  sweet  tranquility. 

And  no  more  talk  of  Thee  and  Me. 

Vain  hope ! for  when  I see  Thee  dead, 

A miracle  of  life  wiped  out, 

Enters  creeping  Doubt,  and  questions  old 
Of  chance  and  destiny  and — may  not 
The  next  earthquake  do  the  like  to  Thee? 

But  here  at  once  I’m  told  this  is 
Impiety,  and  wonder  at  the  temerity 
Of  Herford,  who  dares  ask  the  reason 
‘Why  and  wherefore  of  the  Household  Fly?’ 


[226] 


Microbes 


No  longer  can  we  eat,  or  drink,  or  sleep,  or  think. 
Or  even  breathe  or  sneeze,  quite  at  our  ease. 

But  what  we  find  we’re  on  the  brink  of  some  disease. 
Open  the  papers  and  at  once  our  eyes 
Are  greeted  by  some  new  surprise. 

For  there  we  see  them  advertise  galore 
Cures  for  diseases  we  never  knew  before. 

Arising  from  smells  and  dust  and  dirt 
From  millions  of  Microbes  in  one  continuous  flirt. 
Who  thus  enhance  to  such  a huge  degree  the  dangers 
We  cannot  avert,  find  out,  or  touch,  or  see. 

That  in  despair  we  resign  ourselves  to  Destiny. 


Note: — This  was  the  original  as  written  by  E.  V.,  not  the  version 
printed  in  “Moods.” 


[227] 


A Timely  Saint 

*Twas  summer  at  midnight  when  all  through  the 
house 

I went  prowling  for  something  to  make  a carouse. 
The  drinkables  all  had  been  locked  up  with  care 
For  fear  that  some  tramp  might  be  wanting  his  share. 
When  what  to  my  wondering  sight  should  appear 
But  a waiter  in  white  with  a bottle  of  beer, 

Which  he  deftly  uncorked  with  a motion  so  quick 
That  I knew  in  a moment  ’twas  a summer  St.  Nick. 
With  no  stocking  to  fill  and  no  Christmas  near 
I yet  felt  it  my  duty  to  fill  up  with  beer, 

Which  I did  without  fail,  but  as  people  are  slow 
To  believe  in  this  tale — I’ve  the  bottles  to  show. 


[228] 


Let  the  serious  have  their  say, 

As  we’ve  lived  we’ll  pass  away, 

So  bring  the  song  and  bring  the  wine — 
Fitting  things  for  life’s  decline; 

Bring  the  wine  and  bring  the  bowl. 

Think  not  you  will  lose  your  soul. 

For  many  men  as  wise  as  they 
Have  lived  and  died  in  this  same  way. 

A life  unsuited  to  the  present  day? 

Let  them  cheer  up — we  soon  will  pass  away. 


[229] 


A wandering  breath  of  fragrant  May, 

A soft  caressing  breath  of  spring, 
Awakens  in  my  heart  today 
The  child  that  long  since  there  did  sing. 
And  in  its  welcome  springlike  glow 
I feel  it  melts  the  lingering  snow. 


Enchantment 

Enchanted  between  Heaven  and  Hell 
In  cold  flames  the  Maid  must  dwell 
Until  a Hero  breaks  the  spell. 


[230] 


ENCHANTMENT 


Three  Old  Men  sat  thinking 
All  on  a summer  day, 

The  first  said  naught, 

The  second  less. 

The  third,  he  went  away. 

The  first  one  was  a Saint, 

The  second  was  a Sage, 

The  third  was  but  the  common  Fool 
We  meet  in  every  age. 

T fear  them  all,’  the  Author  said, 
‘Their  looks  are  very  cool, 

I fear  the  Saint,  I fear  the  Sage, 
But  most  of  all  the  Fool.’ 


[232] 


Y et  he  to  them  did  show  his  book, 

‘It  treats  of  Doubt,’  he  said. 

The  Saint  at  once  began  to  frown, 

The  Sage,  he  shook  his  head. 

‘Yes,  ’tis  of  Doubt,  as  I have  said, 

So  fitting  ’tis  that  I 

Should  sometimes  be  in  doubt  myself.’ 

‘We  thought  so,’  all  did  cry. 

The  Saint  resumed  his  settled  frown. 

The  Sage  his  lofty  look. 

The  Fool  first  laughed  and  then  he  yawned 
And  then  his  way  betook. 

The  Writer  tried  to  argue. 

Then  also  went  away. 

And  so  it  was  while  two  Fools  left. 

Two  other  Fools  did  stay. 


[233] 


Vanity 

A King  who  long  had  reigned 
Reviewing  deeds  too  often  stained 
By  treachery  and  blood, 

By  lust  of  power  and  lust  of  gold 
And  by  ambitions  manifold 
All  wandering  from  good, 

Said:  ‘Now  alas!  too  late  I see 
My  life  has  been  but  Vanity. 

For  all  my  gain  has  been  my  loss. 
My  hoarded  gold  has  turned  to  dross. 
Ambition  to  satiety. 

And  my  long  search  for  happiness 
Ends  but  in  pain  and  deep  distress. 
Suspicion  and  anxiety. 

Until  with  Solomon  I cry 
This  world  is  naught  but  Vanity.* 


[234] 


“Highfalutin” 


Cease  fife  and  drum  and  trumpets’  rousing  blast 
And  cannons’  loud  prolonged  reverberations, 
Things  needless  now  as  in  the  buried  past 
Since  we  have  made  our  final  reformations, 
Renouncing  War  and  all  its  infernal  machinations! 


Some  Saints  declare,  in  fact  they  swear. 
This  war-craze  must  be  curbed — 

‘Far  better  go  to  war  ourselves 
Than  have  the  Peace  disturbed.’ 


[235] 


As  to  the  whiffle-tree  its  whiffle 
So  to  the  pen  its  play  or  piffle. 

Things  of  the  morning 
Repented  of  ere  night, 
Thought  better  of  next  day, 
Here  see  the  light. 


Sweet  are  thy  uses,  O Variety! 
Within  the  limits  of  propriety. 
Thou  art  the  spice  of  life, 

Or  say  the  lively  fife. 

To  the  humdrum  of  life’s  monotony. 


Had  things  been  but  sweet  and  good 
And  all  mankind  been  meek  and  mild 
I fear  me  much  we  never  should 
Have  had  a Whistler  or  a Wilde. 


[236] 


By  a stroke  of  pen  the  Czar  did  away 
With  drinking  in  Russia,  and  that  in  one  day, 
But  think  you  this  dryness  is  destined  to  stay 
While  Adam  is  made  of  such  bibulous  clay? 


What  a pity  sayings  new 
Quoted  only  by  a few. 

Made  common  in  the  course  of  time. 
At  last  are  quoted  as  a crime. 

The  brightest  sayings,  such  our  pace. 
Become  in  one  year  commonplace. 


When  Painters  take  the  Pen  in  hand 
And  Poets  wield  the  Brush, 

Many  come  forth  the  sight  to  see. 
But  few  die  in  the  crush ! 

Logic  affords  us  this  surprise; 

'Tis  full  of  loop-holes  of  escape. 

And  the  surveyings  of  the  wise 
Are  measured  by  elastic  tape. 

So  using  wisdom  Baconian 
Avoid  all  rigid  forms  Draconian. 


Doctors  are  but  busybodies 
Interfering  with  our  toddies. 
Examining  our  eyes  and  ears. 
Keeping  tab  upon  our  years. 
Overhauling  our  hydraulics 
And  ending  all  our  fun  and  frolics. 

[237] 


If  in  the  making  of  my  rhymes 
I use  the  sam.e  words  many  times 
And  their  recurrence  bothers  Thee, 
Think  how  they  must  have  bothered  me ! 
Ideas  plenty,  rhymes  but  few. 

Try  verse  yourself — ’twill  bother  you! 


While  walking  in  this  vale  of  woe 
One  finds  full  many  a tender  toe ; 
But  luckily  all  now  aspire 
To  roll  through  life  on  rubber  tire ; 
But  tiresome  and  indeed  a sin. 

To  tread  on  toes — then  rub  it  in ! 
So  autos  guide  as  best  you  can. 
Avoiding  toes  of  beast  and  man. 


There  is  a point  of  hard  detection 
Which  stops  just  short  of  sheer  perfection. 
Beyond  which  if  we  try  to  go 
’Tis  painting  lilies — bleaching  snow; 
Running  perfection  in  the  ground; 

So  stop  when  you  this  point  have  found. 


The  business  man— 

He  fights  for  honesty  in  trade 
As  far  as  laws  of  trade  permit, 
Yet  finds  to  Conscience  in  the  end 
A heavy  debt  he  must  remit. 

[238] 


Mid  verses  dear  to  memory 
The  brood  of  Mother  Goose  we  see 
So  full  of  sound,  some  say  of  sense, 

Retain  their  proud  pre-eminence. 

So  here  we  give,  stitched  somewhat  loosely, 
Leaves  retaining  all  that’s  goosely. 

Let  Dante  take  his  Beatrice  cold 
And  freeze  with  her  in  highest  Heaven, 

She’s  scarcely  human. 

I’ll  take  my  Beatrice  here  on  earth 
And  warm — more  in  the  form 

Of  a real  woman. 

Said  Canova  to  Pauline 

‘You’re  not  too  fat  nor  yet  too  lean, 

Y ou’re  not  too  young  nor  yet  too  old,’ 

And  here  she  added  ‘not  too  cold.’ 

Often  prompted  by  our  wit 
We  proffer  caps  we  think  will  fit. 

Failing  to  note  what  others  see; 

Such  caps  would  fit  us  to  a T. 

[239] 


I have  now  reached  that  time  of  life 
When  all  friends  seem  to  see 
That  any  kind  of  shaky  health 
Is  good  enough  for  me, 

While  if  they’re  ill  a single  day 
There’s  the  very  Deuce  to  pay. 

Oft  in  the  street  some  man  I meet 
To  whom  I nod  a pleasant  greeting, 
Then  find  that  I’d  made  up  my  mind 
To  cut  him  dead  on  our  first  meeting. 


Hear  Bacon  beautifully  tell 
How  the  most  ancient  music  fell 
Into  the  flutes  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
There  making  for  itself  a home 
Where  it  remains — for  not  a tone 
Has  reached  the  modern  Gramophone. 


This  rhyming  you  may  call  it  play. 
And  so  it  is  looked  at  that  way. 

Yet  also  it  may  hold  some  Truth. 
Let  Chronus  with  his  iron  tooth 
Put  all  to  proof. 


[240] 


GLEAMS 


' / 


Foreword  to  Gleams 


Gleams  are  not  Criticisms,  but  more  like  the  rays  or  lines  seen 
in  a spectroscope.  X-rays  we  might  call  them,  discovered  in  the 
effulgence  which  surrounds  celebrated  characters  and  seen  from  the 
standpoint  of  an  ordinary  person;  a person  possessed,  so  he  thinks, 
of  that  questionable  gift — a sense  of  humor.  Had  this  ordinary 
Person  been  gifted  also  with  an  ounce  of  Discretion,  Silence— as 
far  as  he  is  concerned — would  have  reigned  supreme  and  no  one 
have  been  the  wiser.  Question: — are  they  now?  No,  these  are 
not  criticisms,  for  I feel  that — 

The  Cobbler  may  without  disgrace 
Point  out  defects  in  the  statue’s  sandal, 
Whereas  the  praise  of  form  or  face 
Would  in  his  case  be  called  a scandal. 


[243] 


The  Archaeologists 

Future  research  mid  our  remains 
Will  show  what  care  we  take  and  pains 
To  guard  the  output  of  our  brains. 

To  check  and  lawless  thieves  appall 
We  blazon  ‘Copyright’  on  all — 

On  Venuses  and  telephones, 

All  copyrighted  but  our  bones. 


Note:  "Our  bonee  are  turned  to  no  such  aureate  earth 
As  buried  once,  men  want  dug  up  again.” 


[244] 


Why  Compare? 

Let  great  poets  stand  single  and  apart : 

One  to  the  mind,  one  to  the  heart 
His  wisdom  or  his  music  doth  impart, 

Nor  merge  the  noble  Milton  with  the  throng. 
Nor  Dante  stern,  the  scourge  of  every  wrong. 
How  compare  Shakespeare  with  the  rest 
When  he  seems  best,  until  we  read  the  rest? 
No — let  them  stand  apart,  nor  make  compare 
Between  the  perfect,  wonderful,  or  rare. 

Contrarywise — 

Who  so  noble  are  or  rare 

But  what  with  others  we  may  make  compare? 

This  a comfort  is  to  some,  to  some  despair. 

Yet,  to  be  just,  however  high  or  low 

Or  dark  or  fair,  or  generous  or  mean. 

Some  little  touch  is  seen  whereby  is  shown 
We  each  have  something  we  may  call  our  own. 


[246] 


D.  G.  Rossetti 


Rossetti  simply  seals  our  doom, 

Nor  can  we  ever  hope  to  join 
Of  British  Bards  that  noble  throng 
Or  even  emulate  their  song. 

A band  of  Plagiarists  we  stand 
In  an  extensive  barren  land, 

From  a poetic  point  of  view 
Seeing  our  Poets  are  so  few. 

In  truth,  Rossetti  sees  but  one. 

Yet  hopes  that  in  the  course  of  time 
We  may  give  birth  to  things  sublime 
Huge — rugged — raw — and  ‘Underdone.* 


Note:  Last  words  in  Rossetti’s  ‘‘Lives  of  Famous  Poets”:  ‘‘The 

real  American  poet,  Walt  Whitman — a man  enormously  greater  than 
Longfellow  or  any  other  of  his  poetic  competitors.”  'This  makes  us 
feel  like  quoting  the  Bab  Ballads:  “Time,  time,  my  Christian  friend.” 


[247] 


There’s  something  wrong,  dear  Whitman,  with  thy  song: 
Words  are  not  wanting,  nor  is  sound 
Oft  signifying  nothing.  But  a bound 
To  thy  vast  love,  surpassing  that  of  saints 
Embracing  all  mankind,  cannot  be  found. 

When  Thou  didst  first  appear,  a shameful  fear 
Ran  through  the  land  lest  we  should  fail 
To  understand  thy  occult  meaning 
Of  thy  impropriety,  which  at  once 
Gave  Thee  fame  allied  to  notoriety. 

In  Thee  we  seem  to  hear  that  story  told 
Of  those  who  grasping  all  but  little  hold. 

In  Thee  we  seem  to  see  that  fearful  slip 
Between  the  longed  for  cup  and  thirsty  lip; 

But  when  we’re  borne  along  ‘on  pinions  strong’ 
Unmindful  of  thy  faults — we  hail  thy  song. 

Whitman  reaped  his  “Leaves  of  Grass” 

And  while  the  sun  shone  made  his  hay. 

We  know  not  how  ’twill  look  when  sere. 

We  only  know  it  served  his  day; 

But  say,  why  did  he  tear  away. 

In  ruthless  rage  it  would  appear. 

That  leaf  to  modesty  most  dear? 

[248] 


Emerson 


‘I  am  the  Doubter  and  the  Doubt.’ 
Thus  Emerson — turn  this  about, 

T am  the  Kicker  and  the  Kick.’ 

Add  bear’s  cubs  into  shape  we  lick. 
Blake  says  ‘Damn  strengthens.’ 

That’s  the  kick, 

And  that  ‘Bless  weakens.’ 

That’s  the  lick. 

So  kick  in  kindness  those  you  lick. 

And  lick  in  meekness  boots  that  kick. 

Something  is  wrong  in  my  quotations 
Or  in  my  ratiocinations, 

My  trend  of  thought  seems  off  the  track. 
It  scarcely  pays  to  put  it  back. 


[249] 


Aristotle 


Once  all-persuading  Aristotle 

The  tree  of  knowledge  sought  to  bottle, 

Or  put  each  branch  into  a socket, 

And  if  it  would  not  fit — would  dock  it. 
For  thought,  reduced  to  handy  lumps. 
The  head  provides  convenient  bumps. 

In  this  the  origin  we  see 
Of  world  renowned  Phrenology, 
Which  in  its  day  made  such  a show. 
And  may  again,  for  aught  we  know. 


[250] 


When  snugly  seated  by  the  fire 

With  Thee  and  friends  and  flowing  bowl 

Who  cares  how  loud  the  wild  winds  howl, 

Let  others  chide, 

With  Thee  I’ll  bide 
And  risk  a Tam  O’Shanter’s  ride. 

With  Thee  I breathe  the  new-mown  hay 
And  with  Thee  through  the  gloaming  wander. 
In  shady  lanes  where  lovers  stray. 

Where  eyes  replace  the  light  of  day. 

And  kisses  sweet  forever  linger. 

And  arms  bid  stay,  cost  what  it  may. 

With  Thee  I’ll  bide 
And  risk  a ride. 

Another  Tam  O’Shanter’s  ride. 


(April  2,  1916.  Capri.) 


[251] 


When  Plutarch  before  Pluto  stood 
That  monarch  in  a peevish  mood 
Said:  ‘Was  it  essential  we  should  meet 
To  make  thy  set  of  Lives  complete? 

Or  did’st  Thou  think  to  intertwine, 

In  thy  old  style,  thy  name  with  mine?' 

Said  Plutarch:  ‘Prithee  ask  no  more, 

I had  a pair  of  “Lives”  in  store 
When  I gave  out  for  want  of  breath 
But  neither  hinted  at  my  death ; 

And  as  for  twining,  would  I dare 
To  make  of  our  two  lives  a pair?’ 

‘Well,  someone’s  done  it  and  I’m  vexed.’ 
Here  Pluto,  turning,  called  out:  ‘Next.’ 


(Mar  2.  1916.) 


[268] 


IN  PLUTO  S REALM 


’Tis  told  of  Ericson  the  great 
That  from  his  earliest  years  till  late, 
He  used  a little  set  of  tools 
Dating  from  his  infancy; 

They  defective  and  but  few, 

Yet  ample,  for  with  them  he  drew 
His  great  designs  and  measured  lines 
With  absolute  dexterity. 

Let  his  example  be  your  rule — 

Idea  first  and  then  the  tool. 

But  show  not  like  the  fatuous  fool 
Nothing  but — Dexterity. 


[254] 


Lovely  as  are  “The  Stones  of  Venice” 
In  Ruskin’s  hands  they  are  a menace, 

It  seems  to  him  that  he  alone 
Can  know  the  value  of  a stone ; 

Yet  I begin  to  think  I know  it 
As  by  him  through  Venice  led 
I’ve  had  them  all  thrown  at  my  head. 


[255] 


Hudibras 


Alas ! Alas ! how  all  things  pass, 

Even  Butler’s  ‘Hudibras’ 

Where  jokes  that  once  the  rafters  shook 
Would  now  hang  dead,  in  mid-air  stuck; 
Yet  they  were  good  in  their  own  day 
But  now  have  an  odor  of  decay, 

A taste  for  which  we  can’t  acquire. 

But  read,  like  Samuel  Pepys  Esquire, 

In  order  we  may  a verdict  pass 
On  Samuel  Butler’s  ‘Hudibras.’ 


[256] 


Lacon  and  Festus 


It’s  long  years  since  I looked  at  Lacon, 
Not  classing  it,  or  him,  with  Bacon; 

Yet  Festus  might  repay  perusal. 
Remembering  how  he  did  bamboozle 
Or  with  his  tale  of  Hell  afright  us, 

For  now  we  enter  without  asbestos 
The  once  famed  Hell  of  once  famed  Festus. 
But  why  like  Plutarch  make  a pair 
Of  Festus  and  Lacon?  Or  compare 
Bacon  with  the  great  Shakespeare, 

Is  more  than  I can  make  quite  clear; 

I only  know  when  this  is  done 
Someone  may  call  it  flippant  fun, 

And  think  I should  straightway  repent. 
And  so  I will — to  some  extent — 

Under  that  good  old  plea  ‘well  meant.’ 


[257] 


Coleridge,  we  all  know,  thanks  to  thee. 
How  Kubla  built  in  Zanadu — 

Or  did  a pleasure  dome  decree 
Whose  priceless  treasures  we  would  see, 
Had  we  the  key. 


But  he  who  sees  that  dome  arise 
And  drinks  the  milk  of  Paradise, 

And  hears  that  Abyssinian  Maid 
And  her  wild  strains  so  sweetly  blending 
Must  dread  that  noble  river’s  ending 
And  be  afraid. 


But  not  afraid  of  thy  Marineer, 
Another  tale  we  fain  would  hear 
Told  by  that  bright-eyed  Marineer : 

Or  wander  with  pale  Christobel 
Adown  a moonlit  haunted  dell. 
Thrilled  by  that  creeping  pleasing  fear 
We  love  so  well. 


[258] 


Yes,  therein  lies  thy  matchless  spell, 
Thou  see’st  more  than  tongue  can  tell 
In  thy  wizard’s  crucible; 

But  soon  in  its  magic  fumes  we  fear 
All  thy  marvelous  visions  end 
And  disappear. 


In  letters  gloriously  at  ease, 

A spendthrift  of  thy  great  estate. 

In  judging  Thee,  why  hesitate 

To  call  Thee  great? 


[259] 


How  one  bubble  breeds  another 
Like  as  twins  are  to  each  other, 

‘Linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out’ 

I merely  quote,  I do  not  flout; 

For  I was  thinking  of  soap-bubbles. 

And  our  little  joys  and  troubles, 

Each  shining  with  its  little  sun. 

All  bursting  and  the  game  is  done. 

And  how  it  all  resembles  Life 
Where  bubble-blowing  is  the  strife, 

Their  bright  gleaming  our  reward 
While  their  bursting  our  sad  record. 

This  peroration  leads  to  Poe, 

From  whom  we  differ,  for  we  know 
This  life  is  not  an  endless  woe 
On  a dark  Plutonian  shore. 

When  bubbles  burst,  we  blow  some  more ! 

Thus  stopping  that  gloating  Raven’s  quoting 
Himself  monotonously  o’er 
On  memories’  ever-echoing  shore. 

Poor  Poe ! How  sad  thou  should’st  not  know  it, 
Europe,  at  least,  did  hail  thee  Poet. 

Strange ! How  thy  fire  was  quenched  and  lost  on 
That  Plymouth-rocky  soil  of  Boston — 

That  impenetrable  ‘Side’  of  Boston. 

[260] 


The  Bacon  Theory 

Of  all  the  things  that  vex  the  mind, 
Of  all  the  things  that  are  not  clear, 
I think  I need  but  mention  one — 
Who  was  Shakespeare? 

The  greater  we  make  out  the  man, 
The  greater  grows  the  mystery: 
Why  should  he  wish  to  live  and  die 
In  absolute  obscurity? 

But  make  that  man  a King  incog. 
Hidden  worse  than  in  a fog. 

The  atmosphere  begins  to  clear 
About  Shakespeare. 


[261] 


Pepys 

Pepys’  unconscious  fun  is  fine, 

No  need  to  read  between  his  lines 
How  that  most  lovable  old  sinner 
‘Mighty  merry  at  some  dinner,’ 

Tracing  that  dinner  to  its  end 
In  haste  must  for  the  doctor  send. 

Who  to  relieve  his  passing  ill 
Administers  the  timely  pill. 

How  touching  his  simplicity 
For  when  his  pretty  wife  awakes 
She  finds  him  weeping  silently. 

Of  course  they  make  it  up  straightway. 
Then — ‘Mighty  merry  all  next  day’ — 
And  she — a new  gown  doth  display. 


[262] 


Dante 


Stern  master  of  vindictive  verse, 

Skilled  weaver  of  a dreadful  curse, 

Thy  powerful  spell  endureth  long. 

For  in  thy  unforgiving  song 
Thine  enemies  yet  dwell — in  Hell. 

Meanwhile  thy  name  in  Time’s  despite 
Revolves  in  spheres  of  heavenly  light. 
Dost  joy  to  cast  thy  glance  below 
Where,  merged  in  thy  Hell’s  murky  glow. 
Still  wanders  thine  unforgiven  foe  ? 

Hateful  thy  creed,  hateful  thine  age. 
Surely  thy  guide,  thy  Mantuan  sage. 
Bore  kindlier  thoughts  to  Fields  Elysian 
Than  thou  to  thy  dogmatic  Heaven? 

Once  only  dost  thou  touch  our  hearts. 

’Tis  when  Francesca’s  trembling  lip 
Its  piteous  tale  of  love  imparts. 


[263] 


Spencer’s  Supine  Comedy 

In  Spencer’s  paradise  when  all  is  done 
Clouds  cast  no  gloomy  shadow,  there’s  no  sun; 

For  warmth’s  not  needed  where  no  one  feels  cold, 
Nor  can  age  be  where  nobody  grows  old. 

Where  wrong  is  banished,  there  remains  no  right, 
So  courage  counts  for  nothing,  there’s  no  fight. 
There  is  no  pity,  where  no  one’s  bereft. 

So  charity  and  poverty  have  left. 

Even  resignation,  no  display. 

For  every  atom  is  content  to  stay 
Where  it  is  put,  nor  feels  the  least  desire 
To  tempt  again  motion’s  creative  fire. 

But  rests  in  balanced  immobility 
As  such  things  should  in  ‘Supine  Comedy.’ 


[264] 


Diogenes 

What  wast  thou,  O Diogenes? 

Till  Macedonia’s  great  Son 
Gave  thee  thy  chance,  the  only  one 
To  so  impertinently  ask: 

‘Wilt  step  aside  and  let  me  bask?’ 

Perhaps  the  surly  Sage  was  right; 
He  loved  not  intercepted  light. 

So  lying  o’ershadowed  in  his  cask 
What  better  favor  could  be  ask 
Than  ‘Step  aside  and  let  me  bask.’ 

For  wonderful  and  up  to  date 
Was  this  Diogenes  the  Great; 
Plenty  of  sunlight  and  fresh  air 
Were  seemingly  his  only  care. 
Surely  no  Englishman  can  snub 
A man  who  takes  his  daily  tub? 


[265] 


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j^jvtti/r^  o-Lan.e_  I/n-  o 

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ewr  )\ec^v€r  ^^cO: 

^2^^  Clll<x'^j  hxAX^22j^ 


u 


Tupper 


When  passion  like  a raging  flood 
Surges  through  our  distempered  blood 
Then  we  should  practise  self-control, 
Strengthen  our  will  and  save  our  soul. 

This  about  as  Tupperish 
As  any  Tupperite  could  wish, 

To  such  it  may  be  safely  told 
Silence  has  been  compared  to  gold. 

But  not  v/ith  Tupper,  when  he  sang 
The  golden  guineas  round  him  rang, 
Yet  many  bards  who  better  sing 
Lack  this  sati‘S-‘factory’  ring. 


[267] 


Crichton 


We  must  touch  up  the  youthful  Crichton 
By  all  allowed  to  be  a bright  ’un — 

Do  not  omit  the  ‘Admirable’ — 

Who  it  would  seem  was  barely  able 
With  this  addition  to  his  name 
To  get  it  on  the  roll  of  Fame. 

Indeed  his  life  reads  like  a fable, 

For  have  you  ever  seen  or  lit  on 
A single  word  by  this  great  Crichton? 
What’s  in  a name?  we  well  may  say 
When  of  a man  great  in  his  day 
All  but  the  name,  has  passed  away ! 


[268] 


Horace  Walpole 

Walpole  needeth  not  my  pen, 

His  own  pen  doth  him  best  display, 
The  man  and  manners  of  his  day 
He  clearly  shows  in  this  one  ray ; 

So  to  his  hand  I leave  the  job 
Of  picturing  the  perfect  Snob. 


“Men  of  the  proudest  blood  shall  not  blush  to  distinguish  themselTes 
In'  letters,  as  well  as  arms,  when  they  learn  what  excellence  Lord 
Herbert  has  attained.” 


[269] 


Chatterton 


How  could  Fate  blindly  use  its  power 
To  crush  so  fair  and  frail  a flower? 

In  thy  short  life  no  gleam  appears 
Of  comfort,  only  bitter  tears ; 

Others  die  young  and  young  remain 
Their  memory  a saddened  joy, 

But  thine,  poor  boy,  a lasting  pain. 
Keats*  name  ‘in  water  writ’  doth  stay, 
Thine,  on  a sigh  was  born  away. 


[270] 


Browning 

’Tis  dangerous  to  touch  on  Browning 
And  set  the  Brownies  all  a-frowning, 
But  he’s  a preacher  like  the  rest, 

And  only  a poet  at  his  best. 

Hear  Paracelsus  where  he  tells  us, 

Or  rather  Browning’s  about  to  tell. 

All  we  would  know  of  Heaven  and  Hell, 
How  he  peters  out  and  fails  us 
Leaving  the  hard  question  dubious 
By  giving  the  Medium’s  old  excuse. 
Now  worn  bare  through  constant  use — 
‘Even  Spirits  are  not  permitted.’ 

How  much  better  had  he  admitted 
He  did  not  know — and  just  said  so. 

But  he’s  preacher  like  the  rest, 

And  only  a poet  at  his  best. 


[271] 


Carlyle 

Could  Carlyle  be  alive  today 
And  have  a bomb  drop  Chelsea  way 
It  would  not  altogether  charm  him, 

In  fact  I think  it  would  alarm  him, 

And  might  his  worship  much  abate 
Of  certain  Heroes  he  calls  great. 

I think  in  reading  history 
Distance  aids  philosophy, 

A bomb-shell  dropped  in  our  back-yard 
Creates  not  brotherly  regard 
Towards  those  regarded  formerly 
As  almost  of  the  family. 

Is  this  the  meaning  of  Christ’s  word? 
‘In  Heaven  peace,  on  Earth  the  Sword?* 


Goethe  or  Psychic  Conchology 

There  lies  a priceless  Pearl  within 
Theology’s  calcareous  shell, 

A word — by  Science  scarcely  seen — 

Which  humbler  eyes  oft  spell. 

But  call  that  shell  Conchology 
Science  might  solve  the  mystery. 

’Tis  there  as  in  a bag  of  tricks 
Exists  the  Theologic  mix — 

Sin,  Satan,  Fate,  Free-will  and  Grace, 
Where  Man  and  Nature,  face  to  face. 
Forever  fight;  but  is  this  so? 

For  when  we  to  great  Goethe  go 
He  cries,  ‘My  friends,  look  on  the  whole.’ 
Solves  this  the  saving  of  the  Soul? 

Or  does  the  Devil  still  take  toll? 


[273] 


A madman  must  that  poet  be 
Who  vainly  thinks  to  rival  thee. 

Where  find  the  colors  and  the  hues 
That  can  o’er  a dingy  street  diffuse 
The  clear  light  of  thy  paradise? 

Who  by  mere  strength  of  will  can  see 
An  angel  singing  in  each  tree? 

Or — making  bold — stroke  the  lion’s 
Mane  of  gold?  or  piping  down  a valley  wild 
See  on  a cloud  a little  child 
Laughing  at  thee  merrily? 

As  thou  didst — till  theology’s  cold  breath 
Condemned  thy  fairest  flowers  to  death. 

Blake  did  in  noble  poverty 
Achieve  a signal  victory, 

And  his  great  scheme’s  consistency 
But  proves  his  perfect  sanity. 


[274] 


Boswell  and  Johnson 

Had  Boswell  added  Goldsmith’s  name 
He  would  have  made  a trinity 
Of  that  great  epiphytal  tree 
He  reared  to  Johnson’s  memory, 

Only  let  the  sequence  be — 

Genius,  Learning,  Industry. 

Johnson,  not  so  great  as  good. 

Did  in  melancholy  mood 
Save  his  soul — but  did  it  pay? 

(Dare  we  say  so  without  scandal?) 
Was  it  worth  Life’s  cheerful  candle 
To  save  a soul  in  that  sad  way? 

Goldsmith — vain  and  ill  at  ease — 
Offending  where  he  aimed  to  please. 
Full  of  foibles — ever  dear — 

All  this  we  owe  to  Boswell’s  ear. 
Boswell  himself  was  not  Inventive 
But  Mr.  Boswell  most  Attentive. 


[275] 


Defoe 


Thy  great  book  holds  my  boyhood’s  hero, 
In  which  I trace  a dear  old  friend 
Through  a sailor’s  bad  beginning 
To  a good  man’s  peaceful  end. 

How  breathlessly  I fetch  with  thee 
That  long  run  up  the  sloping  beach, 
Until,  beyond  the  last  wave’s  reach, 

I turn  and  gaze  on  the  raging  sea. 

Then,  living  in  security. 

Yearning  for  man’s  company. 

Fearful,  in  wild  amazement  stand 
Before  that  footprint  in  the  sand. 

Book,  dear  like  to  youth  and  age. 
Showing  on  every  living  page 
The  value  and  the  rarity 
Of  absolute  simplicity. 


[276] 


Gustave  Dore 


Many  good  things  that  had  their  day 
If  really  good  pass  not  away ; 

Of  such  the  ‘Thrill’  is  a good  test, 

If  it  remains,  perhaps  the  best; 

For  when  the  novelty  is  passed 
But  little  thrill  remains  at  last. 

So  apropos  of  G.  Dore 
Often  we  are  forced  to  say 
How  he  amazed  us  in  his  day. 

When  with  Gargantuan  appetite 
He  illustrated  all  in  sight. 

Books,  ancient  and  modern,  up  to  date, 
Till  naught  remained  to  illustrate. 

And  I confess  I thought  him  great, 
With  due  allowance  think  so  still. 

Nor  can  my  loyalty  abate 
While  I remember  the  first  thrill. 


[277] 


Tolstoy 

Saints  have  known  from  the  beginning 
All  about  Man  and  Sin  and  Sinning, 

And  have  concluded  for  his  good 

There’s  nothing  left  but  the  monk’s  rough  hood. 

In  Man,  from  family  ties  set  free. 

The  perfect  type  of  Man  we  see. 

The  only  being  in  their  eyes 
Worthy  the  joy  of  Paradise. 

So,  better  that  all  men  should  die 
Than  give  up  Tolstoy’s  theory. 

And  truly  when  I look  around 
Most  of  the  good  are  under  ground. 

Which  makes  me  think  I may  agree — 

In  time — with  Tolstoy’s  theory. 

Strange  that  this  quest — 

Man’s  greatest  good — 

Should  end  beneath  the  monk’s  rough  hood. 

[278] 


Reader,  hast  thou  yet  decided 
Which  was  the  truthful  Spaniard’s  plan? 
To  depict  a half-crazed  Dreamer 
Or  a simple  Gentleman  ? 

Wandering,  poor,  (except  for  visions) 
O’er  La  Mancha’s  dusty  plain. 

The  Gentleman  by  boors  derided. 

The  Dreamer  counted  as  insane. 

Or  was  it  the  genial  author’s  scheme 
To  destroy,  or  to  restore. 

The  little  Romance  yet  remaining 
Which  in  his  heart  he  did  adore? 

Was  he  himself  a Hero  dreaming 
A former  Hero’s  dream  once  more? 


[279] 


/ orncLho 


Comaro  was  an  old  Venetian 
Who  lived  about  the  time  of  Titian. 
(Pray  note  the  neatness  of  this  verse, 
A neatness  we  may  well  call  dapper; 
To  take  away  would  make  it  worse 
Nor  can  you  add  to  it  a capper.) 

Did  Time  with  him  prevaricate 
Or  slip  up  in  his  calculation? 

Or  was  his  but  a glaring  case 
Of  well  devised  procrastination? 

But  sure  it  is  through  half -starvation 
He  long  outlived  his  generation, 

Till  one  small  egg  a day  supplied, 

For  him,  a riotous  collation. 

This  gave  him  quite  a century 
Wherein  he  passed  his  latter  days 
Composing  madrigals  or  lays 
Or  essays  on  longevity. 

Even  whistling  while  at  work. 

Such  his  senile  levity ! 

[280] 


Beethoven 

Music,  freest  of  things  in  nature, 

Yet  the  slave  of  law. 

Mistress  of  mirth  and  melancholy. 

And  of  inspiring  awe. 

Filling  the  dark  chambers  of  the  brain 
With  heavenly  light. 

Thy  gifted  children  suffer  most 
When  giving  most  delight. 


[281] 


Moore 


A love-song  in  a foreign  tongue 
I mind  me  how  a maid  did  sing, 

And  how  on  me  a glance  was  flung 
That  needed  no  interpreting. 

My  bark  was  waiting — we  must  part, 
Too  soon,  alas ! I must  away. 

But  how  that  glance  went  to  my  heart 
And  eloquently  bade  me  stay. 

It  matters  not  how  Lovers  sing; 

There  is  a language  of  the  Heart, 
That  only  loving  eyes  impart. 

That  needeth  no  interpreting. 


[282] 


Herford 


Could  I but  rival  Herford’s  vein 
In  all  things  of  a lighter  strain 
I would  not  of  my  Muse  complain; 
For  Herford  in  his  brilliant  flights 
But  pecks  at  every  thing  he  sights, 
Just  pecks — for  Herford  never  bites. 


[283] 


Austin  Dobson 


This  gentle  poet  is  all  right, 

Dainty  porcelain  clean  and  bright, 
Shepherds  and  their  shepherdesses. 
Flower-besprinkled  brocade  dresses. 
Smiling,  pouting,  billing,  cooing. 

Always  something  graceful  doing. 

Withal  he  makes  them  live  and  breathe. 
They  love  and  sigh  and  sometimes  grieve, 
And  many  kisses  give  and  take. 

But  keep  them  in  a cabinet 
Where  they  are  so  nicely  set — 

And  handle  gently  lest  they  break. 


[284] 


Botticelli 


How  Botticelli’s  Graces  fair 
Lightly  leaning  on  the  air, 
Regardless  quite  of  gravitation, 
Excite  our  boundless  admiration. 

Alas!  Fond  hopes  to  us  so  dear 
As  lightly  lean  on  air,  we  fear, 
But  lacking  his  imagination 
Follow  the  laws  of  gravitation. 


[285] 


Carlo  Dolce 


C.  D.  was  that  Master 
Of  whom  we  oft  hear 
Who  finished  too  highly 
A Magdalen’s  tear. 

On  his  picture  thought  good 
Was  passed  this  harsh  sentence, 
‘While  admiring  the  brush-work 
We  miss  the  Repentance.* 


[286] 


Bangs 

Cosy  House-Boat,  my  delight. 
Would  I could  drop  in  every  night. 
Perhaps  some  future  century 
A refuge  may  provide  for  me 
Far  from  the  present  war-like  mix ; 
The  quiet  waters  of  the  Styx 
May  be  the  cure  and  give  me  rest. 
I’ll  ask  Sir  Walter — he  knows  best. 


(June,  1920.) 


[287] 


A Comment 


As  a small  fire  provokes  much  smoke, 
These  things  may  have  been  all  a joke, 
And  prove  that  they  are  not  the  thing. 
But  only  a poetic  fling. 

The  smoke  (if  joke)  I much  regret. 
The  joy  I’ve  had  I can’t  forget. 

And,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  I feel 
The  fire,  however  small,  was  real. 


[288] 


Books  and  Looks 


Should  good  friends  find 
Trends  in  my  mind 
Resembling  Thought 
Leading  to  naught, 

I can  show  books 
Whose  solemn  looks 
Wisdom  proclaim 
That  end  the  same. 

Doth  Folly’s  mask 
Hide  Wisdom  deep? 

Pray  do  not  ask 
But  simply  keep 
All  you  may  find 
And  with  thine  bind, 

Nay — call  it  thine, 

I shall  not  mind. 


[289] 


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